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THE 


MAN OF FORTUNE, 

AND 


OTHER TALES. 


y" 

BY MRS. GORE, 

AUTHORESS OF ‘ GREVILLE,’ — ‘LOVER AND THE HUSBAND,’ &C. &C. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 


VOL i. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
LEA & BLANCHARD. 
1842 . 




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•Cl HA HO HAJS i3 
.SN: 1 r 


CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 

/ango> OR THE MERCHANT PRINCE. 










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THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER I. 


“ For solitude to virtue proves a grave ; 

A sepulchre in which the living lie, 

Till all good qualities grow sick and die.'* 

Cowper. 

Sir Giles Cressingiiam, in his youth a spendthrift and 
a roue, had become in his age something almost amounting 
to a miser. Not merely as regarded money ; — nay, accord- 
ing to general interpretation, not as regarded money at all ; 
for he was liberal in his house keeping, and scrupulous that 
his old family mansion at Stoke Paddocks should exhibit 
all the state, if not all the hospitality, which it displayed 
under the dominion of his ancestors. 

But the old gentleman was chary of his conversation, 
chary of his affections ; miserly with his mind, miserly with 
his heart. The hollowness of the world, the superficiality 
of mankind, had inspired him with general mistrust, by the 
influence of egotism, creating a complete egotist. 

“ They never cared much for me,” mused Sir Giles, 
“ when I was young, cheerful, and good-looking. How 
can they be attached to me now that I am old, infirm, and 
peevish ? No, no ! their civilities are addressed to my strong 
box. My relations pay their court to me only because they 
want to figure in my will. We shall see, we shall see ! — In 
the meantime, I shall take care that they do not figure at 
Stoke Paddocks.” 

The fine old gardens of the place were consequently 

VOL. i. 2 


6 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


kept up for the recreation of the chaffinches and sparrows. 
It was only occasionally, on a very serene July afternoon, 
that the old gentleman could bear his Bath chair to be roll- 
ed out upon the lawn, to be stationed under a drooping 
beech-tree ; under which he enjoyed precisely the same 
reveries he would have enjoyed by the fire-side. As a 
youth, Sir Giles had been remarkable for his shyness, — as a 
man, for his absence of mind ; — and now, in his decrepitude, 
cold, proud, selfish abstraction had taken place of all other 
faculties. His feeble spirit, within the intrenchments of an 
equally feeble body, was keeping up a perpetual warfare 
and defiance against the mass of mankind. He was always 
on his guard against them ; always inwardly intent upon 
the unobserved discomfiture of their stratagems and manoeuv- 
res. 

Surrounded by venerable servants, whose life had been a 
system of deference, as his of despotism, a perpetual Ko-too 
waited upon his nod. — There was no hope of his extend- 
ing his sphere of virtue or enjoyment. — There was no one 
to suggest that so rich a man as Sir Giles might be wiser or 
happier. When he issued his decrees, his household obey- 
ed in breathless submission. A simultaneous bow actuated 
the whole brigade whenever he was pleased to express an 
opinion. It was clear enough to others besides the vicar of 
the parish, that it would be easier for a camel to go through 
the eye of a needle, than for such a man to enter into the 
kingdom of heaven. 

It is probable that had the splendid property of Sir Giles 
Cressingham been entailed, a vast difference would have 
been operated in his character. As a life enjoyment, he 
would have prized his fortune-only as he prized the food 
that ministered to his hunger, or the garments that preserved 
him from the cold. But absolute power creates the abso- 
lute prince. To dispose of Stoke Paddocks and his other 
fine estates after his death, had been the grand consideration 
of his life — the great object of his reveries under the beech- 
tree and by the fire-side. Had it formed an agreeable ob- 
ject, this would not have signified. But unluckily it was 
a source of pain and anguish to the narrow-minded Sir 
Giles. In addition to the usual jealousy of his successor, he 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


7 


was disturbed by peculiar misgivings and antipathies in his 
choice. 

His nearest relatives were cousins, the sons of uncles ,who 
had tormented him with advice and interference in his youth. 
He hated the whole pack of them. They were the Master 
Goodchilds who had been set up as examples to his boy- 
hood. Ol their children he knew nothing, he wished to 
know nothing, chiefly because their injudicious parents were 
always tormenting him with letters concerning their merits 
and proficiencies ; insulting him with a sight of their copy- 
books, their themes, their school-prizes, and college -distinc- 
tions. Sir Giles resented all this, less as a legacy trap 
than as a personal insult, intending to twit him with his 
folly in having refrained from matrimony ; and his destitu- 
tion, in his having no son of his own to write Latin exerci- 
ses, and take honors at the University. 

By degrees his dislike assumed the morbid virulence of 
animosity. He could keep his troublesome relations out of 
his house, by ceasing to invite them. But even his abso- 
lutism was unavailing against the intrusions of the post. 
They could write to him when they pleased ; and write 
they did, with a pertinacity that seemed expressly intended 
to harass and annoy. As he never answered them, he was 
in hopes that his dogged silence would in the end wear out 
their perseverance. By n*> means ! — They only wrote the 
more, to inquire why he never wrote. At length in 
his feverish irritation, he ceased to open their letters. He 
was familiar with their several hand-writings. He had an 
intuitive perception of a cousinly letter, by the very man- 
ner of its folding; and there was a large drawer in his old- 
fashioned secretaire, to which, for the last ten years, he had 
consigned every note and epistle that bore evidence of em- 
anating from any branch or offset of the family of Cressing- 
ham. He almost allowed himself to rejoice on the arrival 
of one of these family missives, written on black-edged pa- 
per, and closed with a mourning seal. 

Meanwhile, the last will and testament remained unen- 
grossed, and the lands and tenements of Stoke Paddocks 
undevised. Sir Giles Cressingham appeared to conceive, 
that, by evading the question of inheritance, he might baulk 
his inheritors ; — thus, though the most absolute of men, 


8 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


waiving bis own right of disposal over his property, in favor 
of that of the law ! It rs recorded of one of the proudest 
of modern aristocrats, that when the approach of death was 
announced to him by his physicians, he caused his carriage 
to be ordered, went out airing, and died on the road, as if 
from a sort of vague conviction that the King of Terrors 
might be conquered, by defiance, that it was possible 
to be “not at home” to Death! — In the same spirit 
Sir Giles appeared to imagine that the non-appointment of 
an heir secured him from a successor to his property. 

There were moments, however, when announcements in 
the newspapers of the decease of his contemporaries, seemed 
to shake his nerves and excite his anxieties, by reminding 
him that even so rich a man was merely mortal. At such 
periods, his reveries under the beach-tree became, if not of 
a more sorrowful, of a more sullen complexion. He seemed 
to grudge the succeeding generation, manifested through the 
vista opened by those insolent obituaries, their enjoyment of 
the verdant lawns and noble woods around him. Every 
year added something to the beauties of Stoke. Money 
did much, and nature more, to enhance the glories of the 
scenery. The timber grew more majestic ; fresh springs, 
bursting into the lake, perfected its margin ; and rare exotics 
were added to the conservatory, and finer fruits to the garden, 
by the operation of horticulturaWart. It was only the master 
of all these enjoyments who was declining ; it was only Sir 
Giles who found himself the worse for the lapse of succeed- 
ing years. 

Whenever all this occurred to him, he could have found 
it in his heart to exterminate every cousin of them all. As 
a last effusion of malice, he would have adopted some low- 
born stranger, in order to disappoint his expectant kith and 
kin, had his household dependency presented any youthful 
scion certain to survive him. But the abject slavishness to 
which he reduced those connected with him, had prevented 
all idea of matrimony from entering even his steward’s room. 
His old houskeeper was a spinster, and his butler a gay 
bachelor of sixty-two. The whole establishment was as 
lonely, selfish, and discontented as himself. 

It happened that one morning, in the midst of one of 
these fits of gloomy moroseness on the part of the old man 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


9 


his peculiar appetite for the perusal of that grievous depart- 
ment of newspaper intelligence, headed “ Accidents and 
Offences, ” brought under his notice the affliction of a 
widow lady of the name of Blair, whose only child, a boy 
about four years of age, had fallen out of a window, to the 
endangerment of life and limb. Mrs. Blair (it appeared 
from the paragraph in the ‘ Courier’ which described the sad 
event) resided at Reading ; and Sir Giles, remembering that 
the seat of his cousin Richard Cressingham, whose only 
daughter had run away with a Captain Blair, was situated 
within a mile of that town, had reason to suppose that a 
real family affliction had overtaken one of the objects of his 
antipathy. 

In the listlessness of his leisure, he even opened the 
drawer containing the denounced Cressinghamian epistles ; 
and having selected those which bore the postmark of 
“ Reading,” proceeded carelessly to break the seal, anxious 
to ascertain for a certainty that Richard Cressingham was 
visited by misfortune. 

His amiable solicitude was rewarded. The letters in 
question, a hoard conglomerating for the last six years, con- 
tained the whole history of his kinsman’s domestic vexa- 
tions ; first, in the refusal of his only daughter to give her 
hand to his near neighbour and friend, the Earl of Ashleigh ; 
secondly, in her elopement with a penniless captain in the 
Guards ; and, thirdly, in the death of the bridegroom within 
a year of the marriage, leaving an infant son to his portion- 
less widow. Had Sir Giles previously conjectured for a 
moment that the correspondence of his aspiring cousin con- 
veyed intelligence of so many personal mortifications, the 
letters would not have been allowed to remain so long un- 
opened ! 

“ I have resolved, and I have communicated my resolu- 
tions to Sophia,” said Mr. Cressingham’s last letter, “ never 
to receive her again into my house, unless she consent to 
remit the child to his father’s relations ; — who, it appears, 
are willing to burthen themselves by its adoption. To a 
childless widow, twenty years of age, it is far from improb- 
able that Lord Ashleigh might be tempted to renew his 
addresses. At present, she remains as obstinately attached 
to the child as she was to its father. But I am not without 
VOL. i — 2*. 


10 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


hope that the severe distress to which she is reduced, will 
eventually prevail overjier obstinacy. Purely to annoy me 
(though she pretends to talk about attachment to the scenes 
and friends of her youth,) Mrs. Blair has thought fit to take 
up her abode in lodgings at Reading. But as you may 
suppose, my dear sir, this does not accelerate, by a single 
step, her reception under my roof, except upon the terms I 
have proposed to her acceptance.” 

“ Unnatural brute!” was the ejaculation of one of the 
least amiable of the human race, at the conclusion of his 
cousin’s letter. “ L always detested Dick Cressingham, 
even more than his brother. Had it not pleased God to 
remove the child, it should be all the better for its grandfath- 
er’s disgusting inhumanity.” 

It was so long since the old man’s feelings had been 
touched by anything beyond the limit of the park-palings of 
Stoke Paddocks, that he qould not forbear reverting again 
and again to the subject, till he began to interest himself 
seriously in the fortunes of Mrs. Blair and her boy. He 
reconsulted the Accidents and Offences, and even the 
obituary of the Courier, for further intelligence concerning 
the unfortunate child ; and at length worked himself up into 
such a state of nervous excitement, as to resolve upon des- 
patching one of his grey-headed confidentials secretly to 
Reading, to ascertain the sequel of the event. It was only 
a journey of forty miles. A journey of forty miles was 
nothing for the chance of an opportunity of thwarting Rich- 
ard Cressingham. 

The old butler, to whom absence from Stoke was an 
event as rare and almost as exhilarating as tidings of family 
mischance to his master, returned in a couple of days so 
cheered and gratified by his journey, that all he had seen 
and all he could imagine of the widow Blair and her offspring, 
was painted in the most glowing colours. The relief he 
had experienced in emancipation from the thraldom of his 
tyrant, was attributed to admiration of so fine an example of 
maternal devotion and patient resignation, as the lovely Mrs. 
Blair ; and of the promising little Reginald, of whom the 
newspapers had exaggerated the danger, but of whom it 
"was impossible to exaggerate the spirit and beauty. Old 
Matthews vowed he had never beheld so fine a little fellow. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


1 1 

He even added certain arabesque touches to the picture as 
to the resemblance borne by little Reginald to one of the 
ancestral portraits of the Cressingham family, in which a 
likeness had always been found, by his flatterers, for their 
present representative. 

“ It was very prettily thought of in Mrs. Blair, to name 
her son after her great grandfather, Cressingham !” muttered 
Sir Giles, who, but for the idea that this selection on the 
part of the young widow was probably most unacceptable to 
her father, would certainly have liked the boy the less for so 
presumptuous a manifestation of his family connexion. — 
“ ‘ Reginald Blair !’ why not ‘ Reginald Cressingham ?’ — 
nothing would be easier than to effect the change of name, 
if I should find, hereafter, that the old fool Matthews has 
not bamboozled me by his account of these people.” 

The first step taken by the old man towards the verifica- 
tion of his butler’s statements, was to fit up, with simple 
elegance, a small house situated on the outskirts of his park, 
which, in the time of his father, Sir Reginald, had been the 
residence of a favourite sister. By the beginning of sum- 
mer, The Wilderness presented the very type of “ a cottage 
of gentility and already the scheme so far prospered, that 
the interest excited in his mind by the progress of improving 
and furnishing, had considerably abated the habitual hy- 
pochondriacism of the peevish Sir Giles. Every day, he 
proceeded in his garden chair, at a snail’s pace, from the 
Ilall to The Wilderness, to ascertain that the new carpets 
were put down and the gravel walks properly rolled; and 
by the time the butler was despatched a second time to 
Reading, no longer incognito, but as bearer of authentic 
credentials and harbinger of the family coach and four that 
was to arrive the following day, Sir Giles Cressingham was 
at least ten years younger in health and temper than he had 
been ten weeks before. 


12 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ He gave him, first, his breeding; 

Then showered his bounties on him like the hours 
That open-handed, sit upon the clouds, 

And press the liberality of heaven 
Down to the laps of thankful men.” 

Ben Jonson. 

Let it not be inferred that, because the cousinly epistle 
conveyed by Sir Giles Cressingham’s butler to Mrs. Blair, 
drew tears from the eyes of the widow, it contained the re- 
motest allusion to his projects for the benefit of little Regi- 
nald. The prudent baronet, anxious to judge for himself of 
the dispositions of both mother and child, simply expressed 
his regret that, in the period of distress following the untime- 
decease of her husband, she had not made known her 
troubles to one so nearly connected with her as himself; 
and proposed that she should spend a month or two at Stoke 
Paddocks, by way of change of air for the little invalid. 

The tears of Mrs. Blair were produced by the bitter re- 
flection that, had the letter addressed by her early in her 
widowhood to Sir Giles, not asking pecuniary aid — of that 
she was incapable — but imploring his intercession with her 
father, reached its destination, she might perhaps have 
been spared the sufferings of three years of sorrow and 
destitution. It was impossible for her to guess that, so far 
from missing its destination, that very letter lay unopened 
among fifty others, in a drawer of the old man’s secretaire ; 
or that, even if the touching appeal had met his eye, not all 
the eloquence of all the best epistolary authorities in Eu- 
rope, would have induced him to address a syllable of con- 
ciliation to his cousin Dick. 

Gratefully, meanwhile, did she accept the baronet’s 
friendly invitation to Stoke. Change of air had in truth 
been ordered for the boy, who was slowly recovering from 
the effects of his accident; and it touched her to the soul 
that while, in her cruel visitations, her own father had not 
deigned to testify the slightest sympathy, though con- 
stantly passing the door of her humble lodging, a kinsman, 
comparatively a stranger, should exhibit such generous com- 
passion towards the little sufferer. Sir Giles’s invitation 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


13 


came with a double grace that it seemed more especially 
directed to her child. 

Mrs. Blair, severely humbled by the bitter woes of adver- 
sity, was more overpowered than gratified by the demonstra- 
tions of respect with which the head of the house of Cres- 
singham chose to dignify her removal to his family seat. 
It was his pleasure that Richard Cressingham should hear 
of the family coach and outriders filling the narrow back 
street inhabited by the widow, with the glare of their liveries ; 
but it was far from hers that her poorer neighbours should 
be dazzled by a spectacle of such undue magnificence. 
Even the little boy was more amazed than delighted by the 
multitude of strange faces that clustered round him by way 
of escort to his new abode. 

That new abode appeared, however, an earthly paradise 
both to the mother and her child. Poverty is never more 
oppressive than when endured in the confinement of a town. 
The infancy of little Reginald had been spent in a close 
lodging-house, the abode of poor Sophia’s old nurse, who 
officiated as their only servant ; and to possess a garden of 
his own. — a garden where he might play or work at his own 
good pleasure, — a garden full of flowers and fruit, — a 
garden where the sun shone and the birds sang, — was hap- 
piness enough for the boy ! 

His mother’s enjoyments at The Wilderness were of a 
still higher order. Books and musical instruments awaited 
her there, — her, so long estranged from the habits of refine- 
ment derived from birth and education. While the boy 
wondered in silence that his mother should weep to find her- 
self proprietress of an elegant drawing-room, lavishly adorned 
with the minor luxuries of life, he little thought she was 
grieving anew for his father, as on the day of his death. — It 
was precisely in such a house she had indulged the girlish 
dream of passing her life in the society ol Harry Blair! 
And they had been fated to spend only a few needy har- 
rassed months together, — persecuted by the animosity of 
those who called themselves their friends ! 

It was surprising how complete a regeneration of nature, 
was wrought in old Sir Giles by the concoction of the first 
project of his long life not exclusively relating to himself. 
As some gnarled and twisted old thorn-tree sends forth 


14 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


leaves and blossoms in the sunshine, he had found taste, he 
had almost found poetry, in his soul, for the embellishment 
of a home destined to the enjoyment of youth and beauty. 
In that fair widowed cousin and her young child, he beheld 
objects so differing from himself, that he seemed to under- 
stand the necessity of providing pleasures for them utterly 
foreign to his powers of enjoyment ; and had taken pains 
and pride in the prodigality of his arrangements for their 
comfort. 

All the money, all the time, all the thought, however, 
which he bestowed upon these preparations, were a thousand 
fold repaid by the pleasure derived from their arrival. They 
were the first living things, both young and beautiful, that, 
for many years past, had embellished the desolation of 
Stoke Paddocks ; — and the old man and all his inmates re- 
garded them with something of the admiration due to 
celestial beings. 

The child, more especially, became an object of idolatry 
in the house. All his little expressions were cited as won- 
derful, — all his movements noted as admirable. He was a 
plaything to the second childhood of the old people, — an 
idol for their worship. No son and heir was ever more 
devoutly welcomed in a childless house ! Toys, pets, — a 
pony, — a miniature gun, were provided for him ; and when 
he only ran impetuously across the lawn of The Wilderness 
to greet Sir Giles, or sported carelessly upon the banks of 
the lake, the hitherto listless baronet became convulsed with 
alarm lest any evil should betide the lovely boy. 

“ You should be more careful with him, madam ; — you 
ought to observe stricter discipline with him, my dear Mrs. 
Blair,” — he would peevishly exclaim to the tender mother. 
“ After the great peril to which he has been already ex- 
posed by want of proper vigilance, you cannot be too much 
on your guard.” 

At the expiration of the two months specified for their 
sojourn at Stoke, instead of sanctioning their departure, Sir 
Giles Cressingham made a formal proposition to Mrs. Blair 
to abandon her residence at Reading, and adopt The 
Wilderness as her future home ; and if he did not at present 
more distinctly allude to his intentions in favour of Reginald 
it was only because he was now becoming sufficiently ac- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


15 


quainted with Sophia’s peculiar delicacy of mind, to fear 
that mistaken notions of duty towards her father might 
determine her to refrain from unduly promoting the interests 
of her son at the expense of those who had nearer claims 
upon the property. 

Even at the close of a year, even at the close of two, Sir 
Giles had not committed himself by positive engagements. 
Already he exercised over Mrs. Blair the sort of quiet 
tyranny which made slaves of all depending upon him — 
Though far from anticipating, or even desiring, the adop- 
tion of the child to the exclusion of the lawful heir, the for- 
tunes of the portionless boy were solely dependent on the 
caprice of his wealthy kinsman, and she was consequently 
patient under his fractious tyranny. Her father’s resent- 
ments were redoubled by the favour shown her at Stoke. 
Other members of the Cressingham family were yet more 
bitter and even scandalous in their interpretations. But 
she bore their animadversions without repining. The boy 
was so well, so happy, so beloved at Stoke, and so averse 
to seek for affection and kindness elsewhere, that it scarcely 
needed an exercise of philosophy to enable her to submit 
unmurmuring to the injustice of the world. 

At length, three years after her establishment in Buck- 
inghamshire, Lord Ashleigh, as if roused to a new sense of 
her attractions on finding them appreciated elsewhere, 
renewed by letter his proposals of marriage. But they 
were declined without a moment’s hesitation by Mrs. Blair. 
No need to address a word upon the subject to Sir Giles 
Cressinoham. She wanted no advice — she wanted no en- 

O # 

couragement ; all it required was, to express in courteous 
terms her positive disinclination to become Countess of 
Ashleigh. 

About a week after dispatching her letter, she began to 
notice that her cousin’s daily visits were discontinued ; and 
fearing that the old gentleman might be indisposed, she 
hastened to the Hall, which, except at the dinner-hour on 
Sundays, or by special invitation, she seldom entered. She 
soon found that he was not ill, — that he was only angry. 
On learning her renewed rejection of his friend the earl, 
her father had addressed a most indignant letter of remon- 
strance to the baronet ; and Sir Giles, who no longer threw 


16 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


into his rubbish drawer the letters bearing the Reading 
postmark, and was eager to vent upon some third person 
his rage at being reprimanded by Dick Cressingbam, — now 
addressed a furious apostrophe to poor, patient Mrs. Blair, 
lie reproached her as bitterly for her ingratitude, in not 
having referred herself to his opinion in a crisis so nearly 
involving her welfare, as he could have done had she 
accepted the propositions of Lord Ashleigh, and quitted 
The Wilderness to become his wife. Nay, certain of his 
expressions were so humiliating, and so nearly approached 
a menace of dismissal from his favour, that Sophia, whose 
spirit was for the first time roused by his harshness, took the 
opportunity of their quarrel to announce a long-promised 
visit to a friend at East Bourne, and was off with Reginald 
on the following day for the coast. 

Had this proceeding been a matter of policy instead of 
Instinct, it could not have been more adroitly planned to 
bring the old gentleman to reason. After four-and-twenly 
hours’ separation from the child and its mother, he began to 
discover how ill he could dispense with their presence. All 
the sunshine of his life was lost! Again and again did he 
write to implore their return. He talked of illness — he be- 
came indisposed in right, earnest ; and threatened them 
with immediate dissolution unless the mother and son placed 
themselves instantly in the carriage which he dispatched 
once more to bring them home in ceremony to the hall. 

The poor mother dared not persist in her refusal. She 
only stipulated that, since Reginald was to become a sort of 
state prisoner at Stoke Paddocks, proper care should be 
taken of his education ; and as he was now more than 
seven years old, in addition to the pony and gun, a tutor and 
masters were provided for his use. 

Rendered desperate by the impertinent suggestions of his 
cousin Richard, Sir Giles now spoke openly of the boy as 
his future heir. Though he never expressly announced it 
to Mrs. Blair, it became known, througluthe indiscretion of 
his man of business, that a will in favour of young Reginald 
had been signed and sealed. Already, the servants treated 
him with the deference due to their future master ; and al- 
ready his relalions spoke of him with the contempt due to 
their successful rival ; and he was toadied by the depen- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


17 


dents of the family, and flattered by the country neighbours, 
as heir to one of the noblest estates in the country. 

There was no need to toady, no need to flatter him. 
The boy’s dispositions were as conciliating as his personal 
charms were remarkable. He was handsome enough for an 
heir apparent, even to a throne. His mother often grieved 
to note the false indulgence and pernicious adulation sur- 
rounding him ; not only as fatal to the character of the fu- 
ture master of Stoke Paddocks, but because nothing could 
be more uncertain than his hold upon the affections of the 
capricious old man. A fit of peevishness or conscientious- 
ness, to attacks of both which seizures old age is peculiarly 
liable, might at any moment determine him to fling his will 
into the fire, and allow the estates to devolve upon the heir 
at law. Reginald was still too young to be apprised of the 
nature of his position. All she could do in the way of pal- 
liative was to make him as good and reasonable as she 
could. 

But the virtues and wisdom of eight years old, more es- 
pecially when possessed of a gun, a pony, and a tutor re- 
quired by his employer to teach the Latin grammar upon his 
knees, are not much to be relied on. Reginald grew a 
little ( flighty, a little imperious. It was only towards his 
gentle yet often reproving mother, that he maintained the 
docility of his natural character. With the old baronet, above 
all, he became an absolute tyrant. Consciousness of pow- 
er is a dangerous latitude for children and numskulls ; and 
the boy of eight became a despot precisely on the same in- 
stigations as his cousin at eighty. He was perfectly aware 
that, if dismissed from the drawing-room in disgrace. Sir 
Giles could so little live without him, that, penitent or im- 
penitent, he should be summoned back again, even sooner 
than he wished to come. 

Mrs. Blair, though by no means a woman of extended 
intelligence, became at length painfully alive to these perils 
and dangers; her perceptions being singularly quickened 
by the officious advice of Dr. Chaffles, the Vicar of Stoke. 
Chaffles was a well-intentioned man, who, aware that his 
mission in this world was that of a counsellor, was as fond 
of interposing his wisdom in the temporal as the spiritual 
concerns of his parishioners. Without courage, however, 
VOL. I 3 


18 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


to exercise his functions on the leader of his flock, to whom 
he manifested all the blind devotion due to a patron saint, 
he consoled himself by besetting the fair lady of The "Wil- 
derness with assurances that her boy would be irretrievably 
spoiled by the weak indulgence of his patron, and her own 
reputation irrevocably injured by her equivocal position at 
The Wilderness. 

For some time Mrs. Blair replied to the latter insinuation 
with a smile ; — the sullen decrepitude of Sir Giles vindicat- 
ing his character as a seducer, as completely as her own 
depressed condition with respect to him, her own as a sul- 
tana. But by degrees the bitter drop insinuated day by day 
into her portion, acquired strength ; and in the solitude of her 
isolated life, she assigned some importance to the insinua- 
tion of the vicar. She began to fancy herself slighted in the 
neighborhood. She grew nervous whenever some acciden- 
tal visit placed her in the presence of strangers. Dr. Chaflles’s 
object was attained. He had produced an impression, and 
a very disagreeable one it was ! 

The tactics of poor Mrs. Blair, whose destiny it seemed 
to be ever the victim of persecution, were not of a very 
comprehensive nature. Again, as before, she betook herself 
to her friend at East Bourne ; and again Sir Giles, on find- 
ing the shutters of The Wilderness closed, and the nose of 
Reginald’s pony thrust inquiringly over the gate of the mead- 
ow, as if wearying for the return of its young master, pro- 
nounced himself to be the worst used of mankind. 

Just as the great despot of Versailles, on the retirement 
of Louise de la Valliere to the convent of Chaillot, dispatch- 
ed a noble confidant with his equipages and sign-manual to 
bring her back to his arms, did the despot of Stoke now 
expedite old Matthews a second time to the Sussex coast. 
But the fair Sophia, like the lovely Louise, was inflexible. 
She had promised, she said, to spend a month with her 
friends, and afford Reginald the advantage of sea-bathing, 
and must adhere to her engagement. 

On the return of his messenger and his family coach un- 
successful, the baronet became as furious as Roland the 
brave. He spent three sullen hours under his favorite beech 
tree — an alternative to which, he had not been reduced since 
the tenancy of The Wilderness. An evil spirit had entered into 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


19 


him, as into Saul of yore, which there was no soothing harpist to 
dislodge. For several consecutive days, did he grumble and 
growl ; — chiding the servants, cuffing his favorite dog, which, 
paralyzed like himself, was laid every day at the foot of his 
Bath chair to endure his caprices ; and enacting the eject- 
ment of tenants and the prosecution of trespassers and de- 
faulters. Three disastrous law-suits, which afterward tended 
to impoverish his successors, had their rise in the ressolutions 
of those days of contrariety. 

On the fourth, Dr. Chaffles called in, uncalled for ; and, 
almost for the first time, tendered advice to his patron 
nearly as uncalled for as his visit ; assuring him, in 
the strictest confidence, that the feelings of Mrs. Blair 
had long been severely hurt by the equivocal position 
of her son, and the slights produced towards her in society 
by her very questionable situation at The Wilderness. 

Sir Giles stared with amazement ; first, at the gratuitous 
loquacity of his vicar, who, saving in the pulpit, was scarcely 
held entitled to speak in his presence, unless when spoken 
to ; and secondly, at a suggestion which his most discursive 
flights of fancy had never conjectured. He endangered a 
lady’s reputation — he ? — It was not till he had mused three 
hours more under the beech tree, that the astonished old gentle- 
man had exhausted the various gradations of surprise, horror, 
indignation, mirth, and satisfaction, arising from so preposter- 
ous a notion. 

The last sentiment, as was not unusual with him, retained 
the ascendancy. The poor infirm octogenarian chuckled 
inwardly at the notion of being considered dangerous. 
Danger implied attraction. It was clear that many persons 
still supposed him capable of charming a lady’s eye. In 
the midst of his yellow flannels, he drew up his crippled 
form with a smile of terrible exultation. 

Recollecting that he had cut short the eloquence of Dr. 
Chaffles, without giving time for the counsels which were to 
have followed his exposition, he sent a messenger to the vicar- 
age, requesting the pleasure of his company, with a view to the 
termination of his gratuitous discourse. It occurred to him, and 
he was not mistaken, that the church would suggest reparation 
of his wrongs. It also presented itself to his mind, that Dr. 
Chaffles would constitute a more dignified ambassador ex- 


20 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


traordinary than old Matthews, to bear to his cousin, Richard 
Cressingbam’s daughter, the extraordinary proposition, 
purporting to convert the widow into a wife, on the sole 
temptation of becoming a widow again ! even Sir Giles being 
perfectly aware that a jointure constituted the sole palliative 
to the innumerable disagreeables of the match. 

No one who has not lived in a state of subjection to a 
person of bad temper and ignoble mind, can surmise the 
strength of a version generated by such a position! — Mrs. 
Blair disliked the tyrant of Stoke as much as she was capa- 
ble of disliking any human being; — and the mere notion of 
his aspiring to fill the place of Reginald’s father, converted 
her distaste into loathing. — -Still, the interests of her son de- 
manded that her negative should be phrased in measured 
terms. Sir Giles offered, in the event of receiving her hand, 
to make a formal adoption of her son, and confer on him, by 
act of parliament, his name and arms; while on the other 
hand, though not absolutely expressed in bis letter, it was 
pretty clear that her refusal would exile both child and 
mother from Stoke Paddocks for ever more. Dr. Chaffles 
hinted as much while offering his strenuous advice that she 
should smile upon the suit of which he was the special 
pleader. 

But there was a duty to be performed to the dead as well 
as the living ; and Mrs. Blair would not hear of compromis- 
ing a sentiment so sacred as that which bound her to the 
memory of her lamented husband. She refused ; — grate- 
fully, — respectfully, — but in words so decided as to leave 
to Sir Giles Cressingham not the slightest hope of her re- 
lenting in his favor. 

“ You will repent it, madam ; you will repent it the 
longest day you have to live !” cried the vicar, on receiving 
her letter, and an intimation of its contents. “ Sir Giles 
Cressingham, of Stoke Paddocks, forty-seven thousand a 
year, thirty of which within a ring fence, — is a man not to 
be trifled with ! A wilful woman must have her way ; but 
1 beg leave confidentially to assure you that 1 would not be 
in your place, my dear madame, or in that of your son !” 

S f the truth must be told, the vicar did not at that moment 
consider his own particularly inviting. It was on his de- 
voted head that the wrath of the baronet, on perusing the 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


21 


mortifying document, was likely to fall ; and in spite of 
bis cloth, he was almost as little able to evade the explosion of 
his patron’s indignation, as the poor, paralytic Chole, trem- 
bling at his feet ! 

But even Dr. Chaffles, versed as he was in the intemper- 
ate egotism of the old man, had not prepared himself for the 
violent outburst of passion with which Mrs. Blair’s rejection 
was received. The vindictiveness of Shakspeare’s Richard 
was not more ferocious. It was the first serious disappoint- 
ment Sir Giles had received in the course of eighty years’ 
experience ! Happy, or rather unhappy man ! — such an 
impunity tending cheifly to prove the narrowness of the 
sphere of his affections. 

Furious at having been betrayed into a step productive of 
such deep humiliation ; conscious that, but for the injudi- 
cious interference of his pastor, he should as soon have 
thought of applying to government for a mitre as to a pretty 
young woman of six-and-twenty for her hand ; the old man 
indulged in such wild and wanton upbraidings as drove even 
the subservient Chaffles out of his house. The day was by 
no means a pleasant one for those who had no alternative 
but to remain under the same roof with the proudest of 
proud men, who found himself for the first time set at nought. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ I will be sudden, 

And she shall know Love, in extreme abused, 

Knows no degree of hate !” 

Massinger. 

The following day, Athanasius Docket, the man of busi- 
ness who had executed the former will of the baronet, was 
summoned anew to Stoke Paddocks. The instructions is- 
sued to him were secret and confidential as they were per- 
emptory ; and this time, he dared not open his lips to friend 
or foe touching the testamentary intentions of his patron. 

On his departure, the mind of Sir Giles appeared consid- 
erably relieved. It was summer time. He caused himself 
VOL. I. — 3 # 


22 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


to be rolled out once more upon the lawn ; and was guilty 
even of a grim smile as he mused under the beech tree, sat- 
isfied that the work of vengeance was in progress ! He in- 
dulged in no further demonstrations of irritabillity. He 
attempted no overt tokens of displeasure against the lady 
of The Wilderness, but brooded over his malicious projects 
as silently as the assassin brews his cup of poisons ; wait- 
ing in patience like the whirlwind of the poet, 

Which, hushed in grim repose, expects its evening prey. 

Docket had assured him that a week would be requisite 
for the preparation of the deeds, and precisely to that stretch 
of time did he extend his provision of patience. 

An old man tottSing on the brink of the grave, yet con- 
cocting projects of earthly vengeance, is always a terrible 
spectacle; still more so when, like a rattlesnake coiled in 
the midst of some smiling and flowery Savannah, we find 
him surrounded by the most lavish gifts of nature, — the best 
blessings of Providence. There, under the spreading tree 
of his own fair lawn, sat the man who for eighty years had 
enjoyed a superabundance of the good things of this world, 
— its marrow and fatness, — its purple and fine linen ; — for 
which he had never experienced one grateful emotion, — 
one thankful thought ; for he believed them to proceed less 
from the vouchsafing of providence than from his own in- 
herent right and title as representative of the Cressinghams 
of Stoke Paddocks. 

And now, it was also as the representative of the Cres- 
singhams of Stoke Paddocks that lie was about to revenge 
himself upon one who had presumed to suppose that his 
feebleness of mind and body, his unsightly aspect, his wea- 
risome companionship, were an inadequte exchange for the 
sacrifice of her youth and self-respect. The good gifts 
which had inspired him with no feelings of gratitude, con- 
veyed at least facilities for working evil ; and he was re- 
solved that the contumacy of the fond mother should be 
punished with a refinement of malignity worthy the devis- 
ing of a grand inquisitor. 

He counted the days, he counted the hours. He dis- 
patched messenger after messenger to Docket’s office for 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


23 


re-assurances of his punctuality ; and in the interim, con- 
signed to that tomb ot all the Cressinghams, the fatal draw- 
er of the secretaire, a letter bearing the East Bourne post- 
mark, and Dr. Chaffles to Coventry. He waited. He 
took pleasure in waiting. Anticipation seemed to prolong 
the pleasures of vengeance. 

At length the happy day approached ; and had it been 
appointed for his bridal, he could not have hailed it with a 
warmer welcome. Already he had written to Mrs. Blair, — 
written to her for the last time ; not in a strain of upbraid- 
ing, but in friendly and complacent terms, as if acquiescing 
in the wisdom ol her decision ; begging that the past might 
be obliterated from her memory, and soliciting her return to 
The Wilderness on the 25th of June, about a week sooner 
than the time originally fixed : arrangements nearly regard- 
ing the future welfare of her son, rendering it desirable that 
she should be present to witness the execution of some fam- 
ly papers. 

Enchanted to find the old man thus benign and lenient, 
poor Sophia almost reproached herself for the dryness of 
the terms in which she had conveyed her rejection. She 
assured him of her ready compliance with his wish ; — and 
on the evening of the 24th, drove into the gates of The 
Wilderness with exemplary punctuality. Dazzled by the 
variegated hues of its gay flower-beds fragrant at that mo- 
ment, with thousands of mid.summer roses, she almost wonder- 
ed how she had found courage to renounce the favored spot 
so lon<r, for the arid environs of the sea. At the door, she 
found a message from Sir Giles, pleading indisposition, and re- 
questing her to defer her visit to the Hall till the morrow at 
one o’clock ; — a delay affording no small relief to her terrors, 
which were powerfully excited by the prospect of their first 
meeting. 

Next day she felt re-assured. She had rested after her 
journey. Her heart was cheered by the joyous prattle of 
the boy exulting in all the pleasures of home, — all the rap- 
tures of rejoining the pony and Dash, the keepers and old 
nurse Adams, after three week’s separation ; and taking him 
fondly by the hand, she proceeded on foot to the Hall. 

A midsummer day in a fine old English park is a glorious 
thing. The deer taking refuge under the shade of its ma- 


24 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


jestic avenues, — the song of birds bursting from the thick- 
ets, — the hum of insects vivifying the pastures enamelled by 
a thousand wild flowers — impart a tone of gladness and pop- 
ulation even to its solitudes. Mrs. Blair had never lei t 
more alive to the beauties of Stoke, than now when en- 
hanced by the monotony of the South Downs ; just as the 
elegance of her cheerful home acquired a new charm in her 
eyes from the discomfort of the country parsonage in which 
she had been a guest. She felt doubly grateful to Sir Giles 
Cressingham that she had such a home to return to. 

As they traversed a narrow path at the head of the lake, 
within a few hundred yards of the old mansion-house, a pair 
of swans, ancient sovereigns of the waters, sailed majesti- 
cally toward them, descrying their benefactor Reginald, and 
hoping to be fed. 

“ Everything and everybody knows and loves me here, 
mother 1” — cried the happy child. “ Never let us leave 
Stoke again ; — I have not a moment’s pleasure when we 
are away from Stoke !”* — - 

On entering the drawing-room, Mrs. Blair was startled to 
perceive preparations for some extraordinary ceremonial, 
the gilded armchairs, covered with Gobelins tapestry, were 
moved from the wall to form a circle round a table ; at the 
head of which was placed a reading-desk, and a salver con- 
taining a decanter of water and a single glass, evidently in- 
tended for the refreshment of the reader. But before Mrs. 
Blair had leisure to indulge in surmises, the turret clock 
struck the appointed hour; when the door of the drawing- 
room, leading from the suite of inner apartments, was 
thrown open, and in came a solemn procession, headed by 
old Matthews, preceding, in guise of chamberlain, the arm 
chair of his august master, rolled by two footmen into the 
room. 

Agitated by a thousand disagreeable anticipations, Mrs. 
B1 air hastened towards him ; little suspecting that, great as 
was her emotion, the inward perturbation of the old man 
was a thousand times more overpowering. Every pulse in 
his attenuated frame was throbbing with rage and hatred, 
at sight of the only living being who had dared openly to 
avow that personal distaste which hundreds had found it 
difficult to suppress; and not the less painfully, because, in 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


25 


pursuance of his well-digested plans, he received her greet- 
ing with almost more than his accustomed courtesy of the 
old school. He even extended his hand to the boy, with 
the tender familiarity of a parent; till his generous forbear- 
ance brought tears into the eyes of Sophia. 

Too deeply absorbed by the kindly demeanour of her 
friend and benefactor to take heed of the train by which he 
was followed into the room, she continued to answer his in- 
quiries concerning her visit and her journey ; till, on turn- 
ing from his chair, which was placed next to that appropri- 
ated to the reading-desk, she saw that every seat was occu- 
pied, save those intended for herself and her son. 

Beside Sir Giles Cressingham, sat Docket, supported by 
his two clerks ; all three being occupied by the arrange- 
ment of certain rolls of parchment, each of which consist- 
ed of a multiplicity of skins. The huge silver standish ad- 
orned in relief with the family arms, which stood at hand, 
seemed as judiciously matched in proportion with these 
weighty documents, as the tremendous sword of the Castle 
of Otranto, with its helmet of gigantic dimensions. 

But on glancing beyond the chair placed at the right 
hand of Athanasius Docket, the cheeks of the gentle So- 
phia became suddenly crimsoned, to subside into deathly 
paleness ; for, lo ! for the first time for nine years past, she 
found herself in the presence of her father ! — A momenta- 
ry impulse urged her to rush forward and throw herself in- 
to his arms. But the stern and formal salutation of Rich- 
ard Cressingham seemed to mark the limits he chose to as- 
sign to their intercourse ; and the next moment, Sophia con- 
gratulated herself that she had not given way to the instincts 
of filial tenderness, so long and so repeatedly outraged. The 
stony gaze with which her father fixed his eyes upon a 
grandchild whom he saw for the first time, recalled forcibly 
to her mind the contempt lavished by her family upon 
her ill-fated husband. 

In the harsh countenance of Mr. Cressingham, she now 
beheld only the persecutor of poor Blair. She even no- 
ticed that, although his head was now silvered and his face 
furrowed by the progress of years, its expression was more 
than ever obdurate and defying. She had not only lost a 
father in the stern and remorseless man before her, but had 


26 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


gained an enemy. Quailing under bis chilling recognition, 
she felt persuaded that his presence in that room boded no 
good to her or hers. 

Next to her father, came Doctor Chaffles, who was in- 
sinuating in whispers to Docket that his desk was placed in 
the worst possible position as regarded the light, and try- 
ing to persuade him to derange Sir Giles and the whole par- 
ty for the gratification of his officious zeal. Side by side 
with the Doctor sat his tender helpmate, Mrs. Chaffles, who 
never entered the gates of the Hall save for an annual din- 
ner of ceremony on the birthday of the proprietor ; but 
who was especially invited on the present occasion by Sir 
Giles, his cruel cunning suggesting that the mortification of 
a woman is never so complete as when endured under the 
scrutiny of persons of her own sex. 

Behind these conscript authorities were ranged a row 
of minor seats for the reception of the lower house, or stew- 
ard’s room, assembled as if for family prayers ; while, fidget- 
ting between the two orders, stood a certain little man, ar- 
rayed, even at that early hour, in sticking-plaster shorts, 
black silk stockings, and silver shoe-buckles, who might 
have incurred suspicion as a dancing-master, but that he 
was only too well known to all present as the pet apothe- 
cary of the valetudinarian of Stoke Paddocks, the profes- 
sional torturer of the establishment. 

The circle consisted, in short, of pretty nearly the same 
individuals who would have been assembled in that very 
room to witness the nuptials projected by Sir Giles Cressing- 
ham with the woman who sat there pale and trembling, for- 
seeing some impending anathema ; and as the baronet gazed 
searchingly around him, to ascertain that every human being 
was present to whom he wished to exhibit her downfall, — 
triumph glared in his eyes, and flushed his withered cheeks 
with a hectic altogether unnatural. It was easy to perceive 
that the long stagnant current of his blood was strangely 
stimulated by the excitement of his unusual emotions. Be- 
fore the sitting opened its proceedings, he even proposed, 
albeit unaccustomed to confront the contact of the external 
atmosphere even at midsummer, that one of the drawing- 
room windows should be opened for the refreshment of air ; 
and great indeed was the relief of all present when a cur- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


27 


rent of the warm, balmy breath of summer swept through 
the dreary saloon. 

u I believe we are all ready, Mr. Docket, — you may pro- 
ceed to explain the business of the day,” observed Sir 
Giles, in a voice less tremulous and more shrill than usual ; 
whereupon the family solicitor, rising from his seat and cere- 
moniously taking off his spectacles, pompously announced 
to his auditors that they were assembled to become witness- 
es of the execution of the last will of Sir Giles Cressing- 
ham then and there present ; — that honorable gentleman 
having been apprized by certain of his nearest of kin that 
his infirmities and decrepitude were of a nature to prove 
that his days were drawing to a close. 

As Docket gave utterance to this last insinuation, a ma- 
lignant glance from the twinkling eyes of his patron towards 
poor Sophia, conveyed their exposition. But the taunt was 
unheed by Mrs. Blair. The fortunes of the noble boy who 
stood heedless by her side, were too deeply concerned in the 
passing scene, to admit of her referring one detail of its 
pomp and circumstance to herself. Had she been less ab- 
sorbed, she must have noticed her father’s air of exultation. 
It was clear that Richard Cressingham was fully aware of 
the nature of her offence towards the head of the family, 
as well as of the retribution by which it was about to be 
visited. 

The smile of triumph had not subsided from his paternal 
face, when Docket, in a sonorous voice, began to recite the 
contents of one of the rolls of parchment ; the preamble of 
which announced it to be “ the last will and testament of 
Giles Marmaduke Cressingham, Baronet, of Stoke Pad- 
docks, in the county of Buckingham,” and a vast number 
of other places in a number of other counties, “ now re- 
siding in the above named, his principal seat, and in a sound 
state of body and mind.” 

The mummy in the yellow flannels, whose mind was at 
that moment distracted by evil passions enough to have filled 
a whole penitentiary with delinquents, or a whole lunatic 
asylum with patients, bowed complacently on hearing the 
usual form, as if it conveyed a certificate of mental and bod- 
ily sanity, yet immediately proceeded to give proof to the 
contrary ; for when Docket, about to enter into the where- 


28 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


as department of the will, in which, in order to increase the 
amount of his own profits, he had introduced verbatim the 
title-deeds of certain estates, as well as several original grants 
and charters, judiciously suggested that it would suffice the 
purpose of the Baronet and the patience of the company to 
run over the few first words of every clause, Sir Giles in- 
sisted that every syllable should be inflicted upon himself 
and his friends. 

The enumeration of his wealth and splendor purported 
to strike repentance into the soul of the graceless Sophia. 

But the first blow conveyed in the words “ hereby can- 
celling and annulling all former wills or codicils of wills,” 
had sufficed to reuder her callous to all that was to follow. — 
She had sense enough to perceive that Sir Giles Cressing- 
ham would not cancel and annul the will made in favor of 
her boy, merely to indulge his lawyers with the profit of 
drawing up another of similar purport; — and feeling that 
all was lost for Reginald, cared as little to learn the amount 
of the baronet’s enormous property, as the name of the de- 
visee. She sat there as one stupified ; her indisposition as 
clearly manifest as the innocence of Doctor Chaffles of all 
share in his patron’s plan of vengeance ; for, on seeing her 
turn so pale, the vicar officiously whispered her to change 
her seat for one nearer to the window, while the vicar’s 
lady obligingly offered a bottle of salts ; and both new bet- 
ter than to have interfered in her behalf, had they been ap- 
prized of her approaching exile from the court of Stoke. 
Declining their interposition, however, the young widow 
seemed to derive some relief from motioning the boy, who 
was leaning against her, to a seat. It was too trying to look 
upon the handsome, animated countenance of the injured 
Reginald at such a moment ! 

Doctor Chaffles nodded approvingly, conceiving the 
change to be suggested by the extreme heat of the room. 
The progress of the morning had brought the summer sun 
full upon the windows; yet such was the awe in which Sir 
Giles was held by his dependents, that till he was pleased 
to find the brightness oppressive, no one ventured to 
hint that the Venetian blinds had better be closed. Like 
the King of Spain, whom the etiquette of his court com- 
pelled to be stifled by a brasier, they bore without a mur- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


29 


mur the increasing fervor of the atmosphere, aggravated by 
the presence of eight-and twenty persons, rather than pre- 
sume to teel differently from the Ali Pacha of the county 
of Bucks. Each whispered to his neighbor that there was 
thunder in the air, — that a heavy storm was approaching. 
Every face was flushed, — partly with the heat, partly with 
the excitement of the hour ; — the lawyers from the ardor 
of their task, — Richard Cressingham with the earnestness 
of an heir presumptive,- — the Chaffle’s with the pride of 
having been invited to assist at a family solemnity at the 
Hall, — and all the domestics with the idea that the ceremo- 
ny of signing a will on the part of Sir Giles, must announce 
some sort of intention of betaking himself to a better or 
worse place than Stoke Paddocks. They seemed to antici- 
pate that their own most welcome emancipation was ap- 
proaching, — accompanied, of course, with decent mourning 
and annuities for life. 

But the person most heated, both by inward and exter- 
nal excitement, was the pompous testator presiding over the 
assembly ! The veins in his forehead were swollen. — his 
eyes bloodshot, — his lips compressed, as by the laboring of 
his lungs. Yet the glare of those bloodshot eyes increased 
in earnestness, and the scowd of that brow in triumphant 
malignity, at every fresh recital of the vastness of his earth- 
ly possessions, by way of taunt to the woman and child 
about to be driven forth from his Garden of Eden. It seem- 
ed as if, till that moment, even he had never been fully 
aware of his own consequence as lord of so many manors, 
and sultan of so many pachalics. He appeared to expand 
with the detail. His pride was growing too big for his body. 
His aristocratic blood was boiling too ardently in his en- 
feebled veins. Nearly three hours had been expended in 
reading the magniloquent will, every moment of which serv- 
ed only to stimulate the morbid eagerness of the vindictive 
testator. 

As yet, only the names of the trustees had been dis- 
closed ; no allusion had been made to that of the “ sole 
heir and residuary legatee,” for whose benefit that trust was 
created. But as Docket approached the two last skins of 
parchment which were Iq crown the work of vengeance, 
and point out the fortunate individual about to supersede 
yol. i. 4 


30 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


young Reginald Blair as inheritor of one of the finest land' 
ed properties in ihe kingdom, a peculiar glance of intelli- 
gence was exchanged between -one of the black-suited aid- 
de-camps of Mr. Athanasius Docket and Richard Cressing- 
ham; after which, the latter assumed an air of listless un- 
concern, like a country actor exaggerating in his part the as- 
sumption of indifference. 

Far greater exaggeration, however, was perceptible in the 
looks and gestures of one who was no actor in the busi- 
ness, — one whose emotions on the occasion were cruelly 
real. The wasted hands of Sir Giles Cressingham became 
involuntarily clenched as he listened ; and his eyes were 
fixed with the intensity of a beast of prey upon those of 
Mrs. Blair. His dress, usually motionless as the shroud en- 
folding the dead, seemed to heave and quicken with the agi- 
tation of his feelings. It was his turn to triumph. She 
was about to learn that he was omipotent, and she an alien 
and a beggar. 

Just as the fatal words were about to be pronounced by 
Docket, whose husky voice seemed to clear itself, and 
whose weary visage to brighten as he approached the cli- 
max of his work, a shriek burst from the lips of Mrs. Blair, 
which suspended the decree. 

Fascinated as by the glance of a rattlesnake, her eyes 
bad been fixed on those of Sir Giles ; and she was the only 
person present who discovered that they had become sud- 
denly glassy, — that his face was livid, — his jaw fallen, — his 
whole form motionless. 

Unable to move or speak, she pointed in silent agony 
to his chair. In a moment the parchments lay disregarded 
on the table. All present were crowding round the 
corpse ! — 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


31 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ He dies and makes no sign ! 

Oh ! God — forgive him !” 

Henry IV. 

That was a solemn evening at The Wilderness. On 
re-entering her home, Mrs. Blair could not but feel that an 
especial interposition of Providence had prevented her and 
her son from becoming shelterless. She regarded the events 
of the day, to others a source of horror and consternation, 
with sentiments of humble veneration, characteristic of her 
gentle nature. 

A thunderbolt falling from heaven to smite to the dust 
some impious tyrant of old, could scarcely have exhibited a 
more fearful instance of Divine judgment than the fate of 
Sir Giles Cressingham, howbeit arising purely from a com- 
bination of physical causes. The menials of the house de- 
cided, of course, that he died of a fit produced by the fear 
of death, at 'the moment of signing his will ; the lawyers, 
of the perturbation consequent upon mental excitement; 
the vicar and vicaress, of the oppression of an overheated 
chamber; the apothecary (ashamed of not having interfered 
to demand freer ventilation), because the term of a long-ex- 
hausted constitution was arrived ; Richard Cressingham, be- 
cause the devil would have it ; and Mrs. Blair, because the 
hand of Providence had protected the fortunes of the wid- 
ow and the orphan ! — 

Whatever the instrument by which the curse was signi- 
fied, he was gone ! The tyrant was stripped of his power 
the miser of his gold, the angry man of his will to usurp 
the attributes of God. The right arm about to perpetuate 
an act of revenge, was already nerveless ; the fevered frame 
moistened by the chilly damps of death ; the scowling eye 
overfilmed : the despot shrivelled into a senseless lump of 
clay ! His servants, who had waited upon his whims with 
submission in their voices, but hatred in their hearts, satisn 
fied by an ejaculation of the lawyers on the first verificatio- 
of his decease, that the new will was inoperative, but that, the 


32 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


old one remaining uncancelled, their legacies were still valid, 
were at very little pains to disguise their indifference to the 
event. Within a lew hours after the decease of Sir Giles 
Cressingham, voices were heard in cheerful colloquy under 
bis roof, which had been wont to speak in peevish whis- 
pers; and there was laughter in the offices, and everywhere 
a sensation of relief. Reversing the usual order of things, 
the house of death proved anything but a house of mourn- 
ing. 

Although the blinds, so providentially neglected in the 
morning, w 7 ere now carefully closed, the Hall itself had ac- 
quired an air of cheerfulness from the catastrophe. The 
double window's of the baronet’s chamber, the very hinges 
of which had grown rusty from want of use, w'ere thrown 
open. A greater stir than had prevailed at the Hall for 
years arose from the assembling a jury, which the wanton- 
ness of the law chose to summon together to record the 
stereotyped verdict of “ Died by the visitation of God 
just as they would have inflicted one of “Found drown- 
ed,” upon the body of some pauper thrust into a horsepond 
by her husband. 

Could any doubt, meanwhile, have arisen in Richard 
Cressingham’s mind as to his own position with regard to the 
property, it must have evaporated on noting the nature of 
Mr. Athanasius Docket’s address to Mrs. Blair, the verv mo- 
ment Drench the apothecary pronounced that all was over; 
and the respectful bow which qualified his mode of seizing 
the hand of 1 ij tie Reginald. — His condolences on the death 
of their cousin were, in fact, eager congratulations upon 
their accession to a princely fortune. — Of both wills, the 
said Athanasius was appointed acting executor. No one, 
therefore, was more competent to judge their powers and 
intentions; and he made it as plain as if revealed by that 
first of truth-tellers, the Gazette , that the instrument which 
associated Mrs. Sophia Blair, widow, with him in the exec- 
utorship, was that which was to put money in his own purse 
as w r ell as into that of her son. 

At that moment, had Sophia been cognizant of anythin* 
that w'as passing around her, she would have hurried to- 
wards her father with overtures for reconciliation ; nay, in 
the agitation of her soul, would probably have flung her- 


/ 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


33 


self into his arms or at his feet, and implored his blessing. 
But her feelings were paralyzed with horror. She saw 
nothing, — she understood nothing, — she even fancied that 
animation might yet be restored to the lifeless corpse, — re- 
peated but infructuous attempts having been made by Drench 
to open the jugular vein. 

It was not till many hours afterwards, — it was not till, 
tranquilized by the hush of evening in her own quiet home, 
— that the awe-struck woman became fully conscious of the 
great changes that had taken place, and in some degree 
aware of her position. But when she then despatched a 
messenger to the Hall with a letter to her father, it appear- 
ed that Mr. Cressingham had already departed for his fami- 
ly seat ; unwilling to remain at Stoke Paddocks, to exhibit 
the vexation and disappointment of his heart. The over- 
tures of reconciliation, which would have come with so good 
a grace from the mother of the heir, consequently arrived 
too late. 

It was perhaps the extravagant outburst of grief with 
which poor Sophia received back from the hands of Dock- 
et the missive thus fruitlessly forwarded to the Hall, which 
revealed to the lawyer the amiable weakness of the charac- 
ter over which his position enabled him to assume an impor- 
tant influence. Conjoined with her in the execution of the 
will, as joint-guardians and trustees of the fortunate heir, it 
would be hard but a minority of ten years would enable 
the lawyer to lay aside all other professional cares, and en- 
rol himself at some later period among the landed gentry of 
the county of Bucks. 

Twenty years of continual intercourse with Sir Giles 
Cressin-diam, had not tended to the mollification of his heart 
or the strengthening of his principles ; and Docket’s first 
notion, on recovering from the stunning shock of finding the 
castle in the air he had been building up with pounce and 
parchment fot Richard Cressingham vanish into the clouds, 
was to construct one for his own purpose, on earth, of more 
solid materials. The Stoke estates seemed to lie at Ids all 
but absolute disposal. 

During the preparations for the funeral, nothing could ex- 
ceed the consequentiality of the attorney in the assumption 
and manifestation of his new functions. The establishment 
VOL. I. 4 * 


34 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


a! the Hall already looked up to him rather than to the mi- 
nor, as lord of the ascendant. He was to pay the bills, he 
was to discharge the legacies; for many years to come he 
was to be all in all at Stoke Paddocks. 

Sophia long debased by a life of dependance, and just 
then peculiarly enfeebled by the recent shock upon her 
spirits, unconsciously assisted to magnify the increasing pre- 
rogative of the executor ; while Reginald, a shy, gentle boy, 
was only too ready to submit to the authority of one who 
seemed inclined to exercise it for the promotion of his 
pleasures. 

It was amusing to see how instantaneously the dirty dog 
of Sir Giles Cressingham expanded into a man having au- 
thority ; — issuing commands to menials, and inditing des- 
patches, in the imperative mood, to bankers and stock- 
brokers. Not only did his manners attain a sort of instan- 
taneous polish, but his mind appeared to have acquired pre- 
ternatural consistency from the mere reaction of his unpre- 
cedented position. People might have inferred from his 
lofty bearing that it was he, Athanasius Docket, and not 
young Reginald, the kinsman of Sir Giles Cressingham, w ho 
was come into possession of seven-and-forty thousand a 
year. 

A very short space was allowed for pomposity; the ten- 
ure of both being equally equivocal.- Scarcely was Sir 
Giles laid in the grave, when bills were filed in Chancery, 
and processes served on the executors, and all sorts of griev- 
ances and aggravations attempted on the part, on one side, 
of Sir John Cressingham, as heir at law ; and on the oilier, 
of Richard Cressingham, Esq., w ho contended for the exe- 
cution of a nuncupative will in his favor. 

Troublesome and expensive litigation, in short, constitu- 
ted, as in many other cases, the first fruits of inheritance. 
Poor Mrs. Blair, who had flattered herself, or rather w ho 
had been flattered by Docket, that the fortunes of her son 
were now secure, and who had already taken the prelimina- 
ry steps for sending him to Eton with a private tutor and 
establishing herself at the Hall, was overwhelmed by a state 
of tilings almost more painful to bear than her original de- 
pendence. Familiar by hearsay, like all the rest of the 
world, with the uncertainties of [he law and the ruinous de- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


35 


lays of Chancery, to find herself , without money and with- 
out protection, suddenly, launched upon this sea of troubles 
was a trial almost beyond her fortitude. Her sole consola- 
tion lay in a woman’s unfailing and unavailing solace — 
tears; and instead of bestirring herself to seek advice, she 
wept over her own and Reginald’s destinies, without form- 
ing a conjecture how they were to be amended. Like some 
victim ol the days of fable, exposed to the jaws of a de- 
vouring monster, she beheld the fiery dragon Law advanc- 
ing with extended jaws towards her, too much overwhelmed 
to hazard a single effort in her defence. 

This was pretty nearly such a position of affairs as Dock- 
et had anticipated. When disappointed in iris expectations 
of converting the Cressingham executorship into a quiet 
farm, to be enjoyed and managed at his own good liking, it 
afforded some comfort that costly proceedings would event- 
ually secure to his hands, as attorney, the profits of which 
he was for the present defrauded as trustee. Though a re- 
ceiver was appointed for the property, and though both the 
litigating parties had petitioned to have the Hall shut up 
and the expensive establishment reduced, till the hearing of 
the cause, Docket, as guardian of the minor and acting so- 
licitor to the will, foresaw so vast an outlay in the way of 
pounce and parchment, as insured a liberal inheritance, for 
the eventual apportionment of an incontestible will and tes- 
tament of his own. Meanwhile, the depression of Mrs. 
Blair placed her. and consequently the estate, almost at his 
disposal. It was through him she had to obtain the funds 
necessary for carrying on the suit : — it was from him she 
must seek the counsels indispensable for carrying on the suit : 
— his kindness and advice were to be all in all to the wid- 
ow and orphan. 

To a poor widow and needy orphan kindness and advice 
would, perhaps, have been cautiously administered by so 
shrewd a man. But “the mother of the heir of his patron 
Sir Giles was entitled to his utmost sympathy;” and noth- 
ing could be more diffusely pompous than his assurances to 
Sophia that she might rely upon him through all extremi- 
ties. He advised, meanwhile, that Eton should be given 
up for the present; and affected to obtain the sanction of 
the Court of Chancery to her continued sojourn at The 


3G 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Wilderness, and retain at his own risk, the attendance of 
the tutor originally procured for Reginald by his inteiveu- 
tion with Sir Giles. 

An absolute monarchy was consequently once r.iore es- 
tablished at The Wilderness. Fixing her devout tuith upon 
the advice of one who, in the absence of natural protectors, 
was her only friend, — all she knew of the nature of her 
claims, — all she understood of her probabilities of success, 
W'ere derived from this troubled and turbid source of infor- 
mation. Sophia was shy and timid. iMost people admire 
shyness and timidity in women. Some go so far as to cul- 
tivate them, as virtues, in their wives and children ; little 
reflecting how dangerously such qualities, however ornament- 
al to the female character, conduce to place a woman at 
the mercy of designing persons, whether brilliant seducers 
or humdrum attorneys; — or how thoroughly they may invali- 
date the best qualities of the heart. 

The daughter of Richard Cressingham had heen brought 
up in mental subjection, — utterly ignorant of the value of 
money, or the realities of life ; every one calling her that 
pretty, artless creature, Sophia Cressingham ; — and the con- 
sequence was, an imprudent elopement. 

Oppressed still more grievously by the patronage of the 
kinsman who affected to have stepped forward chivalrously 
in her behalf, she gradually lost all energy of mind, all 
power of self-reliance; and at length, hunted by persecu- 
tion, reviled by her father and family as an artful designer, 
and stigmatized by Chancery documents which, in her igno- 
rance of business, she fancied as public as if recited at 
Charing cross, she was harrassed by the dread of appearing 
over-solicitous for the things of this world, even in her in- 
terviews with her co-executor. 

She dared not propose referring her case to higher coun- 
cils. She was assured in so authoritative a tone by Docket 
her business w r as safe in his hands, that she resigned her- 
self to stifle her anxieties during his absence ; and when he 
came, to accept such information of the progress of her af- 
fairs as he chose to vouchsafe. 

Poor Reginald, meanwhile, found little alteration in his 
position. He was not a whit more adored bv his mother 
and nurse Adams, as the proprietor of the Hail, nor a whit 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


37 


less snubbed by bis tutor. All accesses to The Wilderness 
were closed, saving those under the authority of the attor- 
ney ; who was careful to circulate in the neigborhood an 
opinion that the claims of the heir-at-law were teneable, 
and the infirmity of mind of Sir Giles only too likely to be 
established. 

In such uncertainties passed the first tedious winter suc- 
ceeding the death of Sir Giles. 

“ l am sure I wonder what people meant by congratula- 
ting me after the poor old gentleman died,” observed the 
boy, one day, to the good old nurse, the only person not to 
be debarred from treating him with the deference due to the 
head of the family. “The Hall is shut up. Half the 
keepers are sent away ; and in their place, there is a set of 
surly, ill-conditioned fellows, who molest me by their inter- 
ference every time I set foot in the park. I don’t under- 
stand it all. If I am to be master at Stoke, it seems strange 
that I am so much less kindly used there, than while Sir 
Giles was alive ! Nobody comes here now, but that tire- 
some creature, old Docket, whose visits always leave mamma 
in tears ; and who make her believe that 1 am beUer here, 
plodding on with Mr. McAvoy, than at Eton, — but that I 
must not run about the village, or play with poor little Jus- 
tina Chaffles, as 1 used to do. 1 don’t want to be a rich 
man. 1 don’t care to be master at the Hall. But 1 do 
wish we had a nice, comfortable cottage of our own, — with 
cheerful, pleasant people to talk to; and that 1 may never 
hear the name of a lawyer, or see the sour face of old 
Docket again.” 

It was not often that the boy was allowed leisure for such 
colloquies as these. Docket had succeeded in persuading 
the anxious mother that a boy with such wonderful pros- 
pects ought to be wonderfully learned ; and that twice as 
much Latin and Greek would be required of him as of other 
young men. Study, therefore — laborious study was the 
order of the day ; and even w hen Reginald was relieved, 
in the evening, from the documentations of his pedagogue, it 
was only to find his mother, harassed and care-worn, musing 
beside her solitary hearth, and unapt for conversation. 

Her solitary meditations, on the other hand, became daily 
more perplexing, as her situation grew more and more com- 


38 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


plicated. Scarcely a cheering ray was allowed by Docket 
to reach the heart upon which he had fastened his bat-like 
clutch. Invariably, his first movement on entering the draw- 
ing-room at The Wilderness was to shake his head. His 
first communication was sure to be the recital of some fresh 
proceeding on the part of Sir John Cressingham, or some 
new and cruel misrepresentation on the part of her father ; 
till poor Sophia actually trembled to confront the eye of a 
stranger, so persuaded was she that the imputed turpitude of 
her conduct had steeled all hearts against her and her son. 

.Mistrust and anxiety, by increasing her natural shyness, 
at length produced the evil of which she stood in dread. 
Her reserve began to pass for pride with the vicar’s lady 
and the few other country neighbors who found it worth 
while to frequent a house in which sounds of feasting and 
rejoicing were unknown. Some went so far as to decide 
that Mrs. Blair, under the influence of her prodigious expec- 
tations, was growing thoroughly disagreeable ; and amid 
the mutual dissatisfactions thus engendered, the poor aggriev- 
ed woman found relief in closing her doors altogether, save 
against the visitations of her faithful Amadis, Athanasius 
Docket. The attorney, as he anticipated, had it completely 
his own W'ay. 

M ean while the Chancery suit went on, Chancery-wise. 
Though, whenever he saw her sinking into positive despon- 
dency, the attorney renewed his attestations that the cause 
was safe ; — that the proceedings were inevitably slow, but 
that the opinion of the profession w'as in her favor, the mole- 
like w'orkihg of her adversaries was continualy throwing up 
fresh obstacles under her feet ; and so vehement and so active 
became the rival claimants of the Cressingham estates, that, 
as far as regarded the public mind, the rights of her son ap- 
peared to have lost their ten ability. 

Under such circumstances, her pecuniary difficulties in- 
creased daily. A distringas had been placed upon the prop- 
perty. Every arrangement for an allowance to the minor 
was negatived or traversed ; and poor Reginald was per- 
petually saddened by the sight of his mother’s despondency, 
and the discussion of necessities and expedients such as ought 
never to have come to the knowledge of his young mind. 
Money was the constant theme of Sophia’s conversation. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


39 


She fancied the shy, gentle boy heedless of what was pass- 
ing. But, in the rare intervals of his studies, his ears were 
drinking in terrible lessons of the omnipotence of riches as 
an instrument of human happiness, and as connected with 
domestic sorrow’s peculiarly his own. 

Darker still, however, w r ere fated to be the prospects of 
the widow. At the close of two years and a half, Docket 
himself, whose misgivings on the subject of the great cause of 
Cressingham versus Cressingham had hitherto been affected, 
grew really anxious on the subject. Things were taking an un- 
favorable turn. A change of ministry had produced a change 
in the legislative wisdom of the land ; and rumors were 
afloat that a new light was likely to operate a decision fatal 
to the minor. 

Trembling for the advances he bad made, and foreseeing 
a barbarous taxation of his professional demands, Docket 
vented his disappointment upon his unhappy client ; setting 
before her, in the darkest colors, the extremities to which she 
would be reduced should the general opinion prove correct ; 
till Sophia began to look back to her gloomy lodging at 
Reading, and her heavy maternal labors, as a blessed and 
peaceful existence compared with the load of debt and 
shame under which she must labor w'hen ignominiously 
ejected from The Wilderness by Sir John Cressingham. 

“ We have not one friend on earth to afford us shelter or 
succor!” was her exclamation to nurse Adams, when the 
attorney took his departure after these pleasing announce- 
ments ; and all that Reginald could do, in token of sympa- 
thy, was to creep silently to his mother’s side and moisten 
her hand with his tears. 


40 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER V. 

Full little does thou know who hast not tried 
What Hell it is in suing, long to hide, 

To speed to day, — to be put back to-morrow, — 

To feed on hope, — to pine with care and sorrow. 

Spenser. 

IIad such a measure as compromise been possible be- 
tween the minor and the heir-at-law, Docket would not, at 
that moment, have hesitated to recommend it, or Mrs. Blair 
to give it her sanction. But luckily, the improvidence of 
timid natures was frustrated by the peculiar bearings of the 
case. All that remained for Sophia was to endure with 
patience the fluctuations of the attorney’s expectations and 
temper. She was not aware of those of her own ; she chd 
not know how often poor Reginald had to suffer from the 
total absence of method and system in a house supported by 
expedients, having no plans for the future, and very little 
enjoyment of the passing day. He found no sympathy. 
His impulses of youthful joy were checked by the sadness 
of those by whom he was surrounded. The progress of his 
mind was unheeded ; the bent of his nature unexamined ; 
he was an object of almost painful solicitude to his mother, 
whether as the heir to fifty thousand a year, or as a beggar. 
She felt that she was either doing too much or too little for 
him ; and above all, she had not a single easy, unoccupied 
hour in which to clasp him to her bosom, and glory in him 
as her child. Nothing was done to cheer him — nothing to 
cultivate his affections. 

“ I am sure it is a melancholy sight to meet the poor lad 
moping about from hill to dale with that priggish-looking 
tutor of his,” was Mrs. Chaffle’s confidential lamentation to 
her husband. “ Cressirigham, or Blair, or whatever he is 
to be called, it would have been a blessed thing for him had 
the old gentleman left him, instead of a visionary fortune, 
two or three comfortable hundreds a year, and to know 
where to look about him for it. Mrs. Blair’s bill at Milliam’s 
is running up to more than I choose to say ; and as to the 
lad, he hasn’t a comfort or a play-fellow in the world ! It 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


41 


would make your heart ache to see how he colors up, and 
how the tears come into his eyes whenever Tina runs up to 
kiss him as she is sure to do when we meet him parading 
over the meadows with his tutor, as prim as if they were 
following a funeral.” 

“ 1 fancy his prospects are not likely to brighten,” ob- 
served the vicar cheerily, in reply ; that poor woman would 
never take my advice! 1 could have put her in the way of 
managing Sir Giles so as to secure the boy’s succession. 
And now could put her in the way of settling her Chan- 
cery affairs without further litigation, — which will not leave 
the estate a leg to stand upon. Even as it is, why can’t 
she give the poor boy a plain, manly, sensible education ? — 
But that, you see, is her pride, poor woman ! She was 
going to send him to Eton, when she found out that the 
will w ? as as good as null and void; and now she can’t afford 
that, forsooth, nothing less will content her ! — There’s 
Randsley Grammar School. A youth may get his learning 
quite as well, and his morals better, at Randsley Grammar 
School than at Eton.” 

“ I must say, it’s a great misfortune to the neighborhood 
to have the business dragging on in the way it does, the 
estate going to rack, and the house shut up as it is,” mur- 
mered Mrs. Chaffles. — “ It will be the ruin, too, of poor Mr. 
Docket, who will never be able to remain here after all the 
provocations that have been going on, when once Sir John 
has taken possession of the propetry, as is most likely, and 
most to be desired ; for he has sacrificed all his other busi- 
ness, and been maintaining this foolish woman and her son, 
and will only lose his money at last, and be laughed at for 
his pains. Why couldn’t he manage like us 1 We have 
taken part with no party. Let the cause be decided as it 
may, the Hall must always remain open to us.” 

The opinions thus freely canvassed between the vicar and 
his wife, were tolerably general in the parish. The Wilder- 
ness was in complete disfavor. People nodded their heads 
contemptuously, in alluding to Mrs. Blair ; and had scarcely 
the civility to touch their hats to the shy boy, when they 
met him musing in the green lanes or fishing in the solitary 
stream. They wished him well out of his law proceedings, 
— and they w'ished him further. It was all the fault of the 
VOL. i — 5 


42 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Blairs that the circulation of ten thousand a-year was lost JLn 
the neighborhood ; — and the Slokeites spoke of the chancery 
suit as if it were simply an injury done to them by poor 
Sophia. 

Such was the melancholy state of affairs when, just at the 
close of term, about four years after the sudden death of 
Sir Giles, and the commencement of these harassing litiga- 
tions, Athanasius Docket, Esq., found himself suddenly 
summoned to town by the London solicitors in his employ. 
Ap P rehending further demands for retaining fees or advances, 
or he knew not what, Athanasius took care to call at The 
Wilderness previous to his departure, to express, for the 
thousandth time, his bitter regret at having ever been in- 
volved in affairs so onerous and unsatisfactory ; winding up 
with the usual clause of “ not that 1 mean to blame you , my 
dear Madam, or my young friend ; only 1 must say it is 
rather hard that the whole weight and responsibility of a 
suit in which 1 am no wise concerned, should fall upon my- 
self. — l am off to London again ! — another useless and ex- 
pensive journey ! However, we must carry it through — we 
have no choice — we must carry it through. To-morrow, 
Madam, 1 hope to be able to report progress.” 

On the morrow, however, as far as the post wasconcerned 
no progress was reported. In reply to Mrs. Blair’s inqui- 
ries at Docket’s office, it appeared that no news had ar- 
rived from him : and all she had to do was to submit to 
another day of suspense, galled by pressing applications for 
money, and deriving new terrors from a recommendation 
she had just received from her medical attendant to remove 
her son from The Wilderness for change of air, — the evident 
depression of liis spirits probably proceeding from incipient 
indisposition. 

“ 111 — seriously ill — the air of this place disagreeing with 
him — yet unable to stir ! — My poor, poor boy ! — I am sick 
at heart, — sick of my very life,” — mused the afflicted moth- 
er, as she sauntered that evening along the now weedy walks 
of her garden. “ And all this heartburning, — all this morti- 
fication — all this alarm — to proceed from that which I once 
so little estimated, the influence of money ! — I cannot en- 
joy the company of that darling fellow, — I cannot look his 
tutor or Mr. Docket in the face, — I dare not walk through 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


43 


the village, or accost my humble neighbors — for want of the 
means o( doing justice to them and myself. The poor come 
here to be relieved, and I am forced to deny them. My 
tradesmen come here to be paid, and I am obliged to meet 
them with excuses. My neighbors shun me — my family 
despise me. 1 have not one happy hour — one easy moment ! 
— And yet 1 have done no wrong ! — I am all 1 was when 
the world regarded me so kindly. Why — why — was I 
never made to estimate, in my youth, the omnipotence of 
mammon in this cole-blooded world ?”— 

Tears flowed from her eyes as she reflected upon Regi- 
nald and his precarious prospects. 

It was a clear spring evening ; one of those cheerless 
evenings in April, when a chilly twilight makes one appre- 
hend that the spring flowers and early leaves will he blighted 
if left out for the night. Everything was dispiriting. The 
birds seemed to want shelter, — all nature to want geniality. 
It was too early to return to the house, — too late to remain 
in the air. Mrs. Blair inquired anxiously for Reginald. 
He was out with his tutor. He was probably in the park. 
She accordingly opened the gate of communication leading 
into it from The Wilderness (the source in Sir Giles’s time 
of so much evil interpretation,) in order to go in search of 
him and persuade him to come into the house. When lo! 
ere she had proceeded many paces, she descried a postchaise 
and four, gallopping furiously along the grand avenue, which, 
as it drew nearer, appeared to be covered with laurels, while 
the post boys had ribbons streaming from their hats, 

“ Can there be an election going on ?” — was Sophia’s 
first ejaculation— “ I have not heard of one — But no 
one is at the trouble of bringing us news of the county 
now.” 

At that moment, an idea glanced into her mind which 
caused every drop of blood in her veins to stagnate ! If the 
cause should be decided ! If this should be Sir John Cres- 
singham coming to take possession, — coming to drive Regi- 
nald from his home ! Unable to support herself, she tot- 
tered back to the gate, and stood leaning there with her eyes 
fixed haggardly upon the chaise. But it had now passed 
the turn leading to the Hall ; and came dashing up towards 
The Wilderness. The wheels struck fire from the flinty 


44 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


road. The boys huzzaed ; and as they drew nearer, an 
arm waving a white handkerchief was seen protruding from 
the open window. 

Mrs. Blair had lost all self-possession or power of speech 
when at length the carriage stopped at her door, and Docket 
leapt out. His eager congratulations, his noisy demonstra- 
tions of triumph, however, scarcely arrested her attention. 
Reginald, whom he had met at the entrance of the park and 
forced into the chaise, was now in his mother’s arms ; and in 
spite of the attorneys outcries of joy, a still small whisper reach- 
ed her amid all her convulsive sobs, of — “Thank God, dearest 
mother, your troubles are over! — Nothing but peace and 
comfort for the remainder of your days !” 

All was safe ! A decree of the Lords had decided irre- 
vocably in favor of young Cressingham ; and though Docket 
loudly protested he had never a moment doubled that such 
would be the result, it was clear from his obstreperous joy, 
which defied for a time the control of even his cautious dis- 
cretion, that he was quite as much taken by surprise as either 
of his clients. 

After the first necessary explanation, Sophia longed eagerly 
for his departure. She wanted to be alone with her son. 
She wanted to fall upon his neck and weep. For some 
time past, she had almost dreaded to be alone with him. 
He had been a source of as much pain as pleasure to her. 
She had learned to tremble for him ; to fear that he might 
come to pain — to humiliation! And now! Yes! — she 
yearned to be alone with him, — to fold him in her arms — to 
own how deeply she had suffered now that her sufferings 
were over, — and to whisper to him as he had whispered to 
her, “ Rejoice greatly — henceforward all around us is to be - 
comfort and peace !” 

Poor Sophia ! The influence of mammon had done its 
work even upon her. Her very heart expanded in the ar- 
tificial sunshine produced by a shower of gold. The improvi- 
dent girl who had fled from her prosperous home to become 
the drudge of a penniless soldier, had learned to bow the 
knee to the molten calf among the servile multitudes of 
mankind. 

Within an hour, the gardens of The Wilderness were crowd- 
ed with the whole population of the village of Stoke ! On the 


THU MAN OF FORTUNE. 


45 


following clay the house itself would scarcely contain the 
obliging neighbors who hastened, with singular alacrity, to 
offer their congratulations to the happy family. Everybody 
shook hands with every body. Everybody smiled in the face 
of everybody ; everybody seemed eager to admit that this 
accession of fortune, on the part of mother and son, was all 
that had been wanting to complete the happiness of every- 
body. The Reginald Blair they have found it so easy to 
overlook, was become gigantic as Reginald Cressingham. 
Reginald Blair had been voted dull and moping, — Reginald 
Cressingham was shy and interesting. They have been 
angry with Sophia for not sending Reginald Blair to a gram- 
mar school ; while, as to Reginald Cressingham, they could 
scarcely bear to have him torn away from them, even to go 
to Eton ! 

The atmosphere of The Wilderness, so long stagnant with 
solitude, or disturbed only by murmurs of discontent, was 
now astir with cheerful voices and sounds of exultation. 
The musicians of Stoke came carolling to the gates, with 
their serpent and bassoon. The ringers nearly brought 
down the belfry of the old church, with their bob majors. 
The old Hall was thrown open at the suggestion of Docket,, 
and the people drank the health of the Heir of Stoke Pad- 
docks in hogsheads of his own ale ; and condescended to 
demonstrate their joy by roasting and devouring the sheep 
and oxen of his flocks and herds. It was impossible to be 
too much rejoiced at his triumph over his enemies ! 

The boy, meanwhile, was more embarrassed than gratified 
by this prodigious accession of popularity. A week before, 
the little merry girl at the vicarage was the only living be- 
ing, save his mother and nurse Adams, who troubled her 
head concerning him ; and though, at little more than thir- 
teen, his philosophy, or his curiosity, did not extend so far as 
to inquire circumstantially into the motives of their sudden 
enthusiasm, there w'as nothing in it to excite his own. 

For the immediate result of this brilliant transforma- 
tion of his destinies was to sink him into a school- 
boy ! His mother was released from a thousand evils. 
His mother was relieved from the moral nightmare called 
debt; and the still bitterer visitation of dependence upon 
the will and pleasure of Athanasius ; for though seven years 
von. i — 5* 


46 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


of minority were still to elapse, she was too equally associated 
with him in the guardianship, to admit ot his harassing her by 
further contrarieties. 

But the heir had no such consciousness of release. All 
he had to do was to take his departure for the “ antique tow- 
ers,” in company with the pedagogue who had so belabored 
him with learning at home ; and the shy boy, who, so long 
as the consummation seemed impossible, desired nothing so 
earnestly as the companionship of Eton, traditionally dear to 
him as the place where his father received his education, 
became appalled beyond measure now that be found him- 
self on the eve of encountering the quizzing and hoaxing of 
a public school. 

When, after an affectionate parting from his mother, he 
bade adieu for the first and last time to The Wilderness, * 
Reginald would willingly have given half the rent-roll of his 
estate, for the privilege of remaining planted among the oaks 
of Stoke Paddocks, safe from the bantering and examination 
of this wicked world, and able to saunter away the fine 
weather in the woods, and the rainy days with a book in his 
band, or in a game of play with Justina. 


CHAPTER VI. 

u Thus all-accomplished, ere he yet begin 
To show the peeping down upon his chin.” 

CoWPER. 

It was a great trial to Sophia to part from her darling son. 
Even she, disinterested as is the natural tenderness of a 
mother, found herself setting a higher value . upon Reginald 
now that he was become of such immense importance to 
other people : and nothing but her recollection of her hus- 
band’s prejudices in favor of Eton, and the incessant ha- 
rangues of Athanasius Docket (who found the leisure of his 
ward hang heavy on his own hands) concerning- the neces- 
sity of a public education to the career of an English gen- 
tleman, would have determined her to part from the idol of 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


>A 


4 7 


her affections. — What would become of her apart from 
Reginald ? — No sooner, however, was lie gone, than she 
found her lime fully disposed of. Engagements poured in 
upon her ; the newspapers, which took such fond delight 
in recording every particular respecting the interesting 
youth, in whose favor was decided the great cause of Cressing- 
ham versus Cressingham had reminded of her existence 
hundreds of friends of her youth, to whom she had 
become as one dead ; and thousands of Blairs and Cressing- 
hams, who beset her with letters from almost every county 
in Great Britain. 

Between the arrangements of her pecuniary affairs and a 
sort of tacit reconciliation with the neighborhood, which no 
longer thought her sulky or voted her proud, she had not 
leisure to regret the company of her son more than twenty 
times a day. 

All her care was to effect the restoration of Stoke Pad- 
docks to its pristine state. — She had set her heart upon see- 
ing the Hall restored to the same dignified condition as when 
it had first produced so strong ar. impression upon her im- 
agination ; and while thus occupied in the reorganization of 
house and household, it w-as easy for Docket to become 
once more lord of the ascendant in more important instances. 
The despotism of former days was all but renewed. Long 
debarred from the free use of her faculties, Mrs. Blair had 
almost forgotten how to use them. She was thankful to 
Docket for the assiduous zeal that spared so much trouble to 
her indolence; for under his active auspices all the disarray 
of an estate, racked 'and tortured by a Chancery suit as by 
the possession of a devil, was disappearing, and order and 
magnificence resuming possession of the throne. 

“ At present, dear Reginald is indifferent to such mat- 
ters,” was Sophia’s secret reflection, as the Christmas holi- 
days approached. “ Simple in his tastes as he is reserved 
in his manners, he has not an ambition beyond the chimney 
corner of The Wilderness 1 At nearly fourteen, he is still 
a child. It is not his fault, however, poor fellow', that the 
retirement in which he was brought up should have confirm- 
ed the reserve of his sensitive nature 1 How overjoyed will 
he be to find himself in his own quiet home again '.—What 
a relief the seclusion of this place ! 1 only trust our good 


48 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


friend, Mr. Docket, will not come and wear down bis spir- 
its by reference to business, as be does mine ; or exercise 
too much authority over bis pursuits. Reginald’s timid na- 
ture would give way under the interference to which 1 have 
learned to submit.” 

Never had she taken such delight in the renovated beauty 
of The Wilderness, as now that she was on the point of 
welcoming home her child. His unsophisticated tastes 
were likely to pass unheeded a thousand details of luxury 
and comfort ; but even the careless and almost slovenly boy 
would be pleased to find the gardens restored to all their 
primitive pride ; — the new winter shrubbery of evergreens 
and well-rolled walks exhibiting all the care of a skilful 
gardener. His own favorite garden alone had been scrupu- 
lously left untouched, that he might enjoy, as in former 
times, the pleasure of operating his own improvements. Be- 
side it, however, a little hovel had been erected, to contain 
the new tools and horticultural implements prepared for him 
by the forethought of his mother, against the return of 
Spring. 

It was after surveying these preparations, and visiting his 
own old room, newly and commodiously furnished, that So- 
phia hurried down about the hour appointed for Reginald’s 
arrival. For one so sensitively shy, it would be a trial to 
meet even herself and Adams, after four months’ separa- 
tion : and when the carriage stopped, she was already on 
the door-steps, prepared to welcome the little fellow, now 
almost a stranger at The Wilderness. 

Mrs. Blair was scarcely less struck on beholding Sir Giles 
lifeless in his.arm-chair, than at the first aspect of her son ! 
— Young Cressingham advanced to do the honors to her 
with the ease of a fine gentleman. He had left her an 
awkward boy, — he was come back a miniature man. There 
were tears in his eyes, indeed, more manifestly than became 
his manly dignity, when pressed to the heart of his mother, 
and earnestly saluted by the old nurse. But he quickly re- 
covered himself, — took his place authoritatively on the 
hearth-rug, — informed her that, unwilling to trouble her 
with the company of Mr. McAvoy, he had despatched his 
tutor, at once, to spend the vacation in the North, — and in- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


49 


quired after Docket much in the same patronizing tone he 
asked after the house-dog. 

Sophia no longer wondered that, for the last two months, 
he should have become remiss in his correspondence. She 
felt that she should scarcely have understood him, had he 
written in the style he was talking. While gazing with 
pride upon his growth and personal improvement, site could 
enter into the share of a fashionable London tailor in his 
transformation. But who had effected the marvellous revo- 
lution in mind and morals ? Who had given breadth of 
spirit, as well as breadth of shoulders? Who had inspired 
self-reliance? Who had fortified the unstrung nerves? 
Who had converted poor Blair’s timid orphan into the spir- 
ited heir of the house of Cressingham ? Was it still the 
power of Mammon ? Was it in this instance the worship 
of the multitudes bowed down in breathless adoration 
around the golden calf? 

She did not so much as venture to advert to the hovel 
and garden-tools, or the new pony-chair, in which she had 
intended to solicit his aid as charioteer. — Already he was 
giving hints about battues, and talking of a tandem ! — 

It was almost a comfort to her when, after applying a 
series of saucy epithets to his guardian and enquiring after 
the various families of the neighborhood in terms far from 
complimentary, — after talking of hunters and greyhounds, 
neat turn-outs, and clever hacks — he condescended to allude 
to Justina and the old pony ! — He asked after them, how- 
ever, rather in the tone of a patron than a friend. 

“ I suppose, mother, you don’t see much of that horrible 
old Chaffles woman?” said he; “ but my little pet, — 
how is she ?” — 1 was very near bringing her a macaw, which 
1 saw in Windsor as we drove through ! Justina had al- 
ways such a passion for birds. I suppose we need not 
trouble ourselves with the old bores at the Vicarage. But 
surely Tina might be brought to see me ?” 

Mrs. Blair resolved to defer to some moment less interest- 
ing than the first evening of their meeting, her entreaties that 
he° would render to the Vicarage the respect due to the Vi- 
carage; and soon forgot her vexation in delight at his af- 
fectionate inquiries after the pony and one or two of his old 
pensioners in the village. 


50 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE® 


Eton, however, soon burst forth again ! 

u I have promised Morton and Holmeswell to give them 
a week’s shooting at Stoke during the holidays,” said he ; 
“ 1 suppose you can manage to put them up lor me ?” 

u And who are Morton and Holmeswell ?” inquired his 
mother with some surprise. 

“ Don’t you know Morton and Holmeswell ? I thought 
every one knew Morton and Holmeswell. Morton is the 
best dressed fellow at Eton ; and Holmeswell one ol the 
finest riders in England, — both capital fellows. We dined 
together at the Christopher the night before I came oft. 
Capital fun, I assure you. Holmeswell was regularly 
floored 1” 

The consternation of Mrs. Blair knew no bounds. Even 
her serenity was beginning to be disturbed on finding stran- 
gers, even though schoolboys, invited to her house without 
consulting her inclinations on the subject. But maternal 
partiality prevailed ; and she soon began to make allow- 
ances for the young dandy, by assuring herself that he was 
merely showing off for the astonishment of an over-fond 
mother. The morrow would restore him to reason. The 
morrow would bring Docket in all his glory of guardianship. 
A few words from Docket would place everything straight. 
The grave authority under which she lay crushed would 
probably work miracles equal to those of Eton. 

The morrow did bring Docket— and the morrow wit- 
nessed the working of more miracles; — -but not of the na- 
ture anticipated by Mrs. Blair. Unwilling to witness the 
humiliation ol Reginald on recieving a reprimand, she had 
judged it better to leave him tete-a-tete with the executor, 
and discreetly left the room. 

In about hall an hour, she returned ; expecting to find 
the man ol the law, as usual, laying down the law, and 
looking as hard as a bronze statue. She even trembled to 
look at Reginald, lest the blush of ingenuous shame, pro- 
duced by merited reproof, should bum too brightly on his 
cheek. 

No need of alarm ! — The blushing cheek was that of 
Docket. The subdued demeanor was that of Docket. It 
was Reginald who had been laying down the law, and who 
looked as lofty as the statue. Reginald had been quizzing 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


51 


lus guardian unmercifully on the cut of his coat ; and in- 
stead ol resenting his impertinence, the attorney was all ob- 
sequiousness — all courtiership ; — quite ready to varnish the 
boots ol his ward, whenever occasion needed. 

“ i have been talking to Mr. Docket, mother,” said he, 
too politic to drop the Mr. with him as with others, lest it 
should encourage so vulgar a man to take liberties, “ I 
have been talking to Mr. Docket about the shooting, and 
he promises me excellent sport for Morton and Holmeswell. 
Bui we have been agreeing that it will be as well for them 
to stay at the Hall.” 

<? By no means, my dear boy!” said Mrs. Blair, fearing 
that her surprise ol the preceeding evening might have 
been unkindly interpreted. “ I assure you they will be no 
inconvenience to me here. There is Mrs. McAvoy’s 
room ; and I can easily put up a bed in the blue dressing 
room. 

“ Yes, certainly, but 1 am afraid that soil of thing would 
scarcely do. You see, Morton is accustomed to — a — a — 
and Holmeswell is deuced particular. By the way, it will 
be quite impossible, mother, for you to remain here long ; 
this house is so detestably inconvenient. Mr. Docket agrees 
with me, that you ought to remove next summer to the Hall, 
with a suitable establishment. We must petition Chancery 
for an additional allowance on pretence of keeping up the 
place. 1 shall then be fourteen, and shall have some voice 
in the business. In the mean time, Mr. Docket will be de- 
lighted to favor our wishes. It is settled, therefore, that 
while Holmeswell and Morton are here, we take up our 
abode pro. tem. at the Hall. I should not like them to 
find my mother lost in the pokiness of this citizen’s villa!” 

The heart of Mrs. Blair swelled within her. She long- 
ed to give him a lesson. She longed to recall to his mind 
his boyish delight, when the needy widow and child were 
first transferred to that happy retreat ! But she forbore — 
forbearance had long been habitual to her gentle nature. 
Besides, she bad promised herself never to estrange the con- 
fidence of that only son by severity. Her selfishness, under 
the 'form of maternal affection, had not courage to do him 
justice. She saw, too, that she should find no support in her 
co-trustee. When she raised a few to the new 


52 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


plan, Docket laughed away her scruples. — the first time the 
priggish attorney had ever seen fit to laugh at a scruple ! — 
and assured her that Reginald’s views and habits differed in 
nothing from those of other young men of his age and degree. 
He even expressed himself pleased that “ the shy boy should 
at once have associated himself with companions so desirable 
as Viscount Holmeswell, only son of the Earl of ]\J a under- 
well ; and Sir Henry Morton, who, on attaining his majority 
would come into a very pretty property in Leicestershire.” 

Between the authority of Docket and the assumptions of 
Reginald, Sophia found that her influence would be speedily 
superseded ; and in the indolence of a crushed spirit, gave 
up the field without fighting a blow. She had soon oc- 
casion to improve her acquaintance with “a neat turn out” 
and “ clever hacks lor Docket was careful to provide, 
against the arrival of the threatened guests, precisely such 
accommodation as was voted necessary by his Etonized 
ward. A small suit of rooms was fitted up at the Hall, and 
a couple of grooms, with several horses, suddenly made 
their appearance in the stables ; Mrs. Blair being forced to 
subscribe to Docket’s opinion that, since Reginald already 
exhibited the tastes of a man of pleasure, it would be safer 
for them to make his home so pleasant to him, as to leave 
him no pretext for seeking such indulgences elsew here. To 
appease the alarms of the mother, he even undertook to 
preside at the Hall, during the visit of the young Etonians, 
upon condition that she agreed to her son’s proposition, and 
installed herself permanently at the Hall, in the course of 
the ensuing summer. 

It is a startling trial to a parent to find the child — the 
weakling — over whom he has been wont 10 exercise tender 
protection, suddenly shoot up into independence. Sophia 
found that, according to the system of the present day, she 
had lessons to receive from her son. She, a woman, knew 
nothing of t lie world, as now constituted ; he, a boy, w>as 
comparatively better instructed. Certain it was that he 
was more versed in the usages of the day, than the amiable 
recluse of The Wilderness. The accession of fortune which 
seemed to have increased her diffidence by augmenting her 
responsibility, had inspired him with courage and purpose. 
But had it not given too much courage for his strength — 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


53 


too much purpose for his discretion ? Was it not the result 
of the stimulus of flattery ? Had not the boy Croesus been 
surrounded with parasites? Did not his advancement, in 
short, resemble the precocious growth of a plant, over-forced 
by artificial heat? Sophia was too fond of him — too proud 
of him — to exercise much judgment on the case. Whether 
as a shy boy or a microcosmic man, the only son was still 
the object of her adoration. 

There was but one person who exercised sounder discre- 
tion. Justina, who, though advanced to the dignity of white 
frocks, retained at eighty years old all the fearless naivete 
of infancy, openly scouted the pretensions of the fine gentle- 
man of Sfoke Paddocks. 

“ You told me Reginald was coming home,’ , cried she to 
Mrs. Blair, seizing her by the hand as they met one day at 
the church door of Stoke, “ and 1 was so glad ! — l did love 
him so dearly 1 But 1 don’t care a bit for Mr. Cressingham. 
He came one day to see grandpapa, and talk about nothing 
but hunting and shooting. He took no notice o [me. But 
Yis no great matter ; for he is not near such a nice little boy 
as he used to be !” 

Poor Tina, however, was the only person within twenty 
miles round, of the same opinion. The neighborhood had 
been so long accustomed to regard Stoke Paddocks as a Par- 
adise Lost, that the promise afforded by the gay young heir 
of the house of Cressingham, was hailed with delight. The 
world pronounced that law and equity had, for once, united 
wisely in favor of the handsome junior, instead of the de- 
crepit Sir John, or his surly brother. 

All looked forward to brighter days at the Hall. The 
sportsman foresaw battues, — the young ladies, balls. Mr. 
Cressingham was making an admirable beginning. Young 
as he was, lords and baronets already congregated around 
him. Though hampered by a vulgar attorney and quizzical 
mother, the boy had evidently the instincts of a gentleman, 
ami Eton was doing its best towards their development. 
At fifteen, he might almost have stood for the county. 

Athanasius Docket, meanwhile, though scarcely less sur- 
prised in the first instance than Mrs. Blair, had sufficient 
ductility of mind to bow without hesitation to the force of 
circumstances. As promptly as when, at his patron Sir 
vol. i. — 6 


54 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Giles’s commands, he perused the instrument transferring 
the inheritance of Stoke from Reginald to his grandfather, 
did he now determine to win by subservience where he had 
intended to sway by authority. Perceiving that, in his 
ward, he had a very different disposition to cope with from 
the anxious, timid Sophia, his own interests might still be 
served by the propensities of the young roue. If he pro- 
ceeded as he begun, there was every probability that, before 
the attainment of his majority, the amount of its savings 
would be forestalled; and that instead of increasing the rent- 
roll of the estate by new purchases, it would be diminished 
by the prodigality of a spendthrift. Should this prove true, 
it became the duty of a guardian to modify the injury, by 
keeping him out of the hands of the Jews by private ac- 
commodation. Were young Cressingham to die a minor, 
his property w r ould fall to his mother, from whom the 
attorney knew that he had nothing to fear in the way of 
scrutiny. The far-sighted attorney accordingly permitted 
himself to become the ame damnee of one whom he was re- 
solved to render an ame damnee of his own. On casting up 
account with the future, he found that his best mode of in- 
suring a balance in his favor, was by installing himself the 
Mephistopheles of the young Faustus. If Satan can quote 
scripture for his purpose, a clever attorney is equally capa- 
ble of “ taking all shapes and bearing many names — of 
preaching, whenever to “ do the decent” is the order of the 
day, and practising, in very antithetical style, wherever 
it be sale to let the cloven foot peep out, undisguised by a 
gouty shoe. 

He accordingly instituted himself perpetual president of 
the orgies of the Hall, till Sir Henry Morton assured Regi- 
nald that, if old Docket were not quite such a curse of a 
quiz, he would be a capital good fellow; while Holmes- 
well was never weary of assuring his friend Cressingham, 
that he had got a “ trump of a guardian.” He wished he 
could give him as an example to his own father; swearing 
that he “ would not only exchange the Earl against him, but 
throw something into the bargain.” 

With these views in perspective, it was not surprising 
that Athanasius should support the determination of Mrs. 
Blair to remain at The Wilderness, instead of removing to 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


55 


the Hall. A thousand slight but important indications con- 
vinced her that she will do well to entrench herself at once 
in a home of her own, — the home assigned to her by the 
baronet, — and to the support of which, her income of three 
thousand a-year was fully equal. Her son’s assumption of 
independence rendered it necessary that she should have 
some regard for her own. 

Her explanations with him, however, were neither peevish 
nor resentful. She had not courage or inclination to oppose 
any desire expressed by her son ; but simply assured him 
that her presence would one day become a painful restraint; 
and that should he then make this apparent to herself, pain- 
ful estrangements between them must necessarily ensue. 
She promised, meanwhile, to exercise her taste and judg- 
ment in the renovation and refurnishing of the Hall, upon 
which he had insisted ; and even to preside there whenever 
the reception of company made her presence desirable. 

Again did Sir Henry Morton interfere to assure Cressing- 
ham, that he had the most judicious of mothers, as well as 
the most discreet of guardians ; — while Lord Holmeswell 
vowed to the gods that, could he have changed the worldly, 
selfish Lady Maunderwell for the gentle, disinterested Sophia 
this time, he would have flung the family diamonds and the 
home-farm into the lighter scale. 

Reginald had no leisure to listen to all these praises. 
His life, both at Eton and at home, was a round of recrea- 
tions. He had been too well crammed by McAvoy in his 
boyhood to find severe application necessary ; and between 
rowing, sailing, cricketing, fishing, hunting, shooting, and a 
variety of other diversions unsuitable to his years, found life 
far too pleasant a pastime to take heed of the morrow, or 
even the afternoon of the passing day. 

« Morton and Holmeswell w'ere no doubt right. He did 
not find either his mother or his guardian much of a bore, — 
except, the former, who nervous about restive horses, — or 
the latter, when prosing about the disposal of his borough 
interest. Old Docket was not so bad a judge of claret, after 
all. As to his mother — but she was his mother, and that 

was enough !” # . TJ .. 

As time progressed, the Christmas parties at the nail 

became extended in numbers, if not improved in quality. 


56 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Nothing can be more absurd than to assert the prevalence 
of a levelling principle in our public schools. Lord Maun- 
derwell’s son was, of course, called “ Holmeswell,” and 
fagged in his turn. But when advancing towards the head 
of the school, he held his aristocratic place in the little 
community far more decidedly than in after-life at his club. 
Neither tutors nor chums forgot for a moment that he was 
the only son of the Earl of Maunderwell ; and quite as 
little were they disposed to overlook the fact, that his friend 
Cressingham, was in the enjoyment of fifty thousand a-year, 
good church preferment, and a family mansion where the 
preserves were excellent and the celiais of high reputation. 

The influence and popularity of both was prodigious. It 
was not without just grounds that Reginald attained at Eton 
the nickname of the “ Heir and many friends.” Time was 
still to prove whether the parody w'ere to hold good through- 
out ; and the unfortunate hare of the fable to find a human 
representative in the popular young Man of Fortune. 


CHAPTER VH. 


“ Lord of himself— that heritage of woe ! 

That fearful empire, which the human breast 
Holds but to keep the soul within from rest.” 

Byron. 

h rom that period Reginald Cressingham, like the often- 
quoted swan of “ still St. Mary’s Lake,” floated double. 
He became Reginald Cressingham and shadow. The pai’- 
verru guardian, aw'are that bis future consequence must ema- 
nate from his ward, strove, by every means in his power, to 
amalgamate his own existence with that of Reginald ; and 
as in the case of other parasite plants, this intimate junction 
was of course at the cost of the nobler tree. 

Young Cressingham W'as as rarely to be seen without 
Athanasius at his heels, as Don Juan without his Leporello. 
In any other instance, such intimate companionship might 
have boded improvement to the younger. But Athanasius 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


57 


Was the disciple rather than the master. He knew nothing, 
except vulgar fractions, more than Reginald ; while Regi- 
nald, though a school-boy, knew a thousand things that were 
heathen Greek to the attorney. 

The factitious atmosphere and soil engendered by enor- 
mous wealth, was bringing forth the usual result. F rom his 
infancy the boy had been the sport of fortune ; and his fac- 
ulties, long repressed by her chilling power, were now start- 
ing up into exuberant and barren verdure. The branches 
were wild and fanciful, but fruit was wanting. As little 
Justina, the orphan grandchild of the vicar of Stoke, was 
once reproved by grandmamma for her audacity in remark- 
ing — “There always seemed to be something make-believe 
in Reginald.” 

Nevertheless, four years after his accession of fortune, 
Cressingham of Stoke Paddocks was pronounced to be the 
finest gentleman at Oxford. Fine gentlemanism, in its 
vulgar acceptation, is a fluctuating accomplishment ; uncer- 
tain as every other mere matter of fashion. To dandyism suc- 
ceeds slang, and from slang the world of blockheads recur to 
dandyism ; the turf, the held, the road, cigars, whiskey, or 
Champagne, being the exceedingly right thing one term, and 
the exceedingly wrong one, the next. 

Even scholarship has its turn. When, by rare accident, 
the popular young Duke or Marquis of Christchurch hap- 
nens to be marked for an Honour, dunces fall in general es- 
timation ; and the fine gentleman for once allows himself to 
be seen in the livery of the Muses, instead of a bang-up by 
Stultz, or a paletot of Blin. 

Some such auspicious influence proved of singular advan- 
tage to Reginald Cressingham. Clever men happened to 
be the order of the day. Two or three young Oxonians 
had recently distinguished themselves in Parliament, or by 
writing tolerable verses, or as men of wit and pleasure ; and 
the man who aspired to pleasure without wit had conse- 
quently fallen in the market. Books were the pet folly in 
vogue. 

Not that there was much danger of such pretenders to 
literature working their way into very severe pedantry. 
Classical scholarship was too_high an aim for these young 
aspirants. On Cressingham’s table lay piles of poetry and 

VOL. i. — 6* 


58 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


romance, — of light memoirs and heavy histories ; just as, 
when roueism was in vogue, his Havannahs had arrived in 
bales, and his Maraschino in hampers ; the wealth which 
entitled him to play the fool more splendidly than his neigh- 
bors, having enabled him to order from a London bookseller 
a consignment of everything new that came out. 

Next, perhaps, to a course of solid reading under the 
guidance of a wise preceptor, the most advantageous thing 
for an intelligent mind is a course of indiscriminate reading, 
under its own, — as a young dog is best taught to swim by 
throwing it from a bridge into a current. Cressingham was 
a young man of excellent if not distinguished abilities. 
The noise of dissipation was beginning to lose its charm. 
He had seen almost enough of horses and grooms, — tandem 
racing and jollification. A serious illness, brought on by 
excesses of every kind, had confined him to his rooms six 
dreary weeks ; during which he found enlightened bv the 
failure of his usual reckless and deceptive spirits, the selfish 
levity of Morton Holmeswell and Co., grow insupportable. 
On his recovery, he became almost as much disgusted with 
his previous habits of life, as with the friends from whom 
they had been imbibed. 

Convalescence, meanwhile, inspired a new passion as on- 
erous, if not so perilous to life and limb as a hunting stable. 
Incapaciated for boisterous enjoyments, he became addicted 
to whist. — Whist happened to be the thing in vogue; and 
the capital fellows infesting Cressingham’s room, conceiving 
the young man of fortune entitled to enjoy the thing in 
vogue in its most costly shape, assured 'him that a few 
months’ practice would render him the best player at Ch. 
Ch. Athanasius had no reason to infer, from the demands 
on his private account, that the minor had renounced two 
or three most expensive pursuits, in order to devote himself 
exclusively to a pleasure, which he had been enjoying for 
years at the modest much of half-a-dozen shillings per 
week. 

Such was the origin of Reginald’s devotion to study, — 
if study it could be called. He was now devoted to a se- 
dentary lile; drank green tea instead of claret, and took a 
quiet airing, instead of declaring war upon all the fences in 
the county. He lived in what he called “ a little quiet set 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


59 


of his own,’ and the intervals of the academic torture in- 
dispensable even to Cressingham of Stoke Paddocks, were 
divided between “ What are trumps?.” and the hot-pressed 
literature of St. James street. Precisely such works as my 
reader l>as now in his hand, lay heaped, in their Quaker- 
colored covers, upon his table, to be lounged over in his 
dressing-gown, or dozed over upon his damask sofa. 

A sort of hero-of-romance existence was accordingly be- 
ginning to develop itself to his imagination. He was now 
nineteen, and singularly good-looking; fair, and scarcely 
above the common height, yet possessed of so elegant a phys- 
iognomy and air, as to /merit the appellation of “distin- 
guished,” applied in England almost exclusively to the 
tall and dark ; and on the continent, to a pigmy or Albinos, 
if endowed with nobility of countenance and gesture. 
There was every reason to anticipate that the Heir with 
many friends, would shortly become the Heir with many 
loves. 

But it was not alone with reference to his present or fu- 
ture conquests, that Reginald began to find a dangerous de- 
light in the pages of fiction. He w'as beginning to muse 
with earnest consideration upon the peculiarities of his sit- 
uation. Reversing the usual order of things, the circum- 
stances which had converted the boy into a man, were now 
converting the man into a boy.. He was actually bewilder- 
ed by the discrepancy between his prominent position in the 
world, and his imperfectly developed sentiments and feel- 
ings; 

No parallel presented itself for his singular fortunes. 
There were just then at Oxford one or two contemporaries, 
in the enjoyment ot prospects as brilliant as his own. But 
these had been the fruit of inheritance, — soberly descend- 
ing from sire to son, and'shackled by the usual impediments 
of aristocratic connection, — formal dowagers, — and the ad- 
amantine fetters of pedigree and pride. Not one of them 
*but w'as a slave to duties arising out of the Crusades. Not 
one of them but w'as a mere link of the human chain ex- 
tending from the Norman Conquest to the last dying speech 
of English monarchy, whose destiny probably resembles 
that of the phoenix ; — to expire only that a brighter bird of 
the same species, of more brilliant plumage and greater 


60 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


force of pinion, may arise from its ashes. Not one of them 
was free, like him, to choose a wife, — to choose a party, 
to choose a destination. 

His position was unique, in short, save in the pages of 
the novelist ; and it was there accordingly that young 
Cressingham sought for sympathy and precedent. It was 
there he read of heroes sinking under the gifts of fortune, — 
young, handsome, accomplished, — (and discontented) — as 
himself. It w r as there he introduced himself to ideal hero- 
ines, Matildas or Geraldines, fancying himself alternately a 
Pelham or a Vivian Grey, — a Granby or a ; Gerfaut ; — the 
Lord Glenmore or Clarence Hervey of Miss Edgew r orth, or 
the Arthur of the alcoholic pages of Balzac, Frederic Soulie, 
or Eugene Sue. 

Reginald could not forbear smiling when it one day pre- 
sented itself to his mind that, for once, he had distanced the 
emulation of Docket. Hitherto, at an humble distance, 
Athanasius had trod in all his footsteps. Since the epoch 
of the establishment of the will and the re-organization of 
the household at the Hall, the wily guardian had instinctively 
become knowing in horseflesh, discriminating in wine, an 
epicure, a connpisseur, — nay, almost a dandy, for the jeers 
of Morton and Holmeswell had induced him to change the 
cut of his garments just as the habits of Reginald compelled 
him to alter his stake from sixpenny points to pounds. But 
the angular Beau Shatterly of fifty-five was scarcely likely 
to fancy himself into a Sir Charles Grandison, or to interfere 
with the loves and graces of his ward. But though he had 
distanced the attorney, he was far from being alone in his 
glory. There were still Mortons and Holmeswell neck and 
neck with him in the career of romanticism, as formerly in 
that of sportsmanship and dissipation. So long as a young 
man in his position chose to become the founder of a school, 
no likelihood of any want of disciples. A genteel melan- 
choly a la Cressingham became the right thing ; — a genteel 
melancholy enlivened by fits and starts of artificial wit. 

Because Cressingham of Stoke Paddocks fancied himself 
satiated, at nineteen, with the pleasures of life, the youth of 
Ch. Ch. assumed an air of picturesque languor, and tried to 
subdue their joyous impulses of health and spirits to the 
elegant philosophy of a Jacques in his teens, in the enjoy- 


61 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 

ment of fifty thousand a year; — till Gottingen or Jena would 
have been puzzled to produce a more dreamy race of Illumi- 
nati than those who filled up the intervals of Cressingham’s 
nightly whist, by prating mysticism and mouthing verses to 
imaginary Mignons. 

“ And what was Cress doing when you left Oxford ?” 
inquired Morton, of Lord Holmeswell, the former of whom 
had six months the start of Reginald at Eton and Oxford, 
and the latter a year. 

“ Not much worth speaking of, I fancy. But I have not 
been near him this winter. Cress is grown a regular spooney. 
Oxford is not what it was in your time. But Cress is the 
cursedest spooney of them all.” 

“ He was getting tolerably soft before 1 left,” resumed 
Morton ; “ had sold off his hunters, and was setting up for 
a reading man ! Now ’pon my soul one can’t stand a man 
in Cress’s position dwindling into a reading man ! Very 
well for such fellows as Percy, — (Percy of Maudlin I mean.) 
Percy is a younger son, without a guinea, and has his way 
to make in Parliament. 1 can forgive Percy-.” 

“ 1 fancy it was he who first bit Cress with this sentiment- 
al turn,” observed Holmeswell. “Cress, you know, never 
had an idea of his own ! Don’t you remember what a 
mammy-sick, apron-string animal it was, when it came to 
Eton ? You took him in hand, and /did what I could with 
him ; but if it had not been for us, he would have continued 
to ride like a taiior and dress like a tailor’s apprentice to the 
day of judgment. By heaven, I have still on my conscience 
that mulberry- coloured coat with silver buttons of the old 
attorney’s which you chose Cress to adopt — after you had 
figured in one at the boat race till laughed out of countenance, 
and which the guardian copied from his w'ard, as the right 
thing.” 

“ After all, what an absurd mishmash it all w^as, down at 
that place of Cressingham’s !” — added Morton, laughing. 
“ Such cursed roads and such a detestable neighbourhood.” 

“ And then the housekeeper-mother and Lawyer Endless 
of a guardian and Cress, with all the vulgar tastes and 
ambitions of a parvenu. For after all he is a parvenu. He 
inherits his estate from the mother’s side, who, quizzy as 
she is, has gentle blood in her veins. But the father was 


62 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


a nothing, I fancy, — neither family nor fortune. Old 
Cressingham, the grandfather, never saw her again, you 
know, after the match. 

“ \ et Cress is as proud as a peaoock,” observed Morton. 

“ Purse proud,” added Lord Holmeswell, shrugging his 
shoulders. “If there be a thing on earth incomprehensible 
to me, it is purse pride !” — 

Sir Henry Morton, though secretly of opinion that there 
were many things on earth equally incomprehensible to the 
young Viscount, and that there was little merit in not being 
proud of a purse, containing less than a groat, readily as- 
sented. They agreed in voting Cress a sad, silly, conceited, 
vulgar fellow, who would never possess a real friend, or 
come to good in the world ; though neither thought it 
necessary to admit to the other the amount of I.O.L T s. bear- 
ing his signature, deposited, among other family archives, in 
Reginald’s deed-chest at Stoke Paddocks, — as completely 
dead letters as the correspondence amassed by his prede- 
cessor. 

It was, perhaps, some -suspicion of these weighty obliga- 
tions which induced Mrs. Blair to give a decided preference 
to the new order of associates who thronged to Stoke Pad- 
docks during the following vacation. They were at least 
quieter in their deportment and more decent iu their habits 
than the roues, whose excesses were still the wonder of the 
country round. Under these auspices, the library became 
the favoured region of the house. Just. as the cultivation of 
the stables and cellars distinguished the reign of Morton and 
Holmeswell, did the appointment of a librarian and the 
rescue of a family collection of the highest order, attest the 
more enlightened influence of Percy of Maudlin. 

“ I am heartily glad that Sir Henry Morton has ceased to 
come here,” observed his mother to Reginald, one day, 
when the departure of his guests had left him, for a single 
day at the mercy of The Wilderness. “ There was an 
insolence in his manner which I always wondered how you 
could endure ?” 

“ Not insolence , — the mere sangfroid of fashionable life, 
my dear mother,” replied Reginald. “ Harry Morton felt 
towards me as a brother, and used as little ceremony.” 

i( I do not know how you may understand the feelings of 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


63 


a brother,” persisted Mrs. Blair with a smile, “ but I can 
assure you that Mr. Docket once overheard him in the 
billiard room mimicking and quizzing you to Lord Holmes- 
well, in the most unhandsome manner.” 

“ A man capable of listening to conversation not intended 
for him to hear, is quite as capable of misrepresenting it 
afterwards,” observed Reginald, drily. 

“ It was only in your interests, rny dear boy, that he 
noticed to me the duplicity of these pretended friends,” 
added Mrs. Blair, repeuting her indiscretion. 

“Docket is a very obliging person, and, I believe, at* 
tached to us,” said Cressingham haughtily, after a pause; “but 
the last person in the world to institute himself a judge of 
anything connected with the habits and manners of the 
world. If I find him making impertinent remarks upon rny 
friends (for Morton and Holmeswell are my friends, — I may 
have chosen to see less of them lately, but I have the great- 
est regard for both), I shall take an early opportunity of 
requesting him to find some other residence than Stoke.” 

“ I was much to blame to say a syllable to you on the 
subject,” faltered Mrs. Blair. “ He spoke confidentially. 
1 had no right to repeat what was intrusted to me. 1 intreat 
you, therefore, to think no more on the subject.” 

In her eagerness to avoid the part of a mischief-maker 
between Reginald and his guardian, she resolved to seal her 
lips for the future. Could she have convicted young Percy 
and his clique of even caricaturing their partial host, upon 
the attorney’s showing, she would have been cautious of dis- 
closing their treachery to her son. 

As usual, therefore, in his situation, he was left to rock 
himself in the happy dream of being an object of intense 
affection to all surrounding him. With pleasing credulity, 
he believed that the favoured individuals whom he had so 
long supplied with horses, dogs, and cigars, cherished for 
him the same disinterested attachment as those who assured 
him that his verses were Byronic, and his aspirations as 
sublime as they were original. 

As Mrs. Blair observed, however, the habits derived from 
this new ascendancy were less prejudicial to his purse, 
health, and reputation, than those of the roues. Both 
guardian and mother promoted his present refined pursuits, 


64 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


and applauded the change as a reformation ; and whatever 
Docket gave forth was as religiously echoed by the subordi- 
nates of Stoke Paddocks, as a psalm from the singing gallery 
of Stoke church responded to the giving out ol the parish 
clerk. 

Dr. Chaffles, who, as little daring to beset young Cres- 
singham with advice as his former patron, Sir Giles, had 
invariably crept to The Wilderness with a chapter of 
lamentations in his pocket the day after Reginald’s depart- 
ure for Eton or Oxford, now appeared with congratulations 
on the exquisite graces of mind and manners developed in 
his young friend. It was only little Justina who presumed 
to express, not to Mrs. Blair, but to Reginald himself, her 
complete disapproval. 

“Grandpapa has given me a pony,” said she one day, 
when they met accidentally in the village. “Some day or 
other, you must take me out with you. 1 want you to teach 
me to leap. Jasper is a frisky little thing, and goes over a 
grip famously.” 

It was, perhaps, because unambitious of officiating as 
esquire to a Dulcinea of twelve years old, that Reginald 
cooly informed her he had almost given up riding, and had 
scarcely a saddle horse in his stables. 

“ Just like you 1” — retorted the laughing girl. “ You 
have always begun at the wrong end of everything, and 
you always will ! — When you were a boy and ought to have 
been playing cricket, nothing would do but horses, nothing 
but battues ! Now you are a man and strong euough to 
enjoy a sportsman’s pleasures, you have turned book-worm. 
Good by Mr. Cressingham 1 1 wonder whether it will ever 

suit you to turn a reasonable being !” 

More than once did this random and saucy remark of 
a mere child, recur to the recollection of Reginald Cressing- 
ham. 

“Well, well ! 1 fancy I am not much more inconsistent 
than others of my age,” was his secret conclusion, after 
having meditated one day with serious self-reproaches upon 
his infirmity of purpose. “ It is only my power of realizing 
the whims and fancies conceived by other men that renders 
my versatility so conspicuous. Tina is right, however. As 
Voltaire says, people who scorn to enjoy the pleasures of 
their age. are pretty sure of a double portion of pains !” 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


65 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Where the red wine-cup floweth, there art thou ! 

When luxury curtains out the evening sky ; 

Triumphant mirth sits flush’d upon thy brow, 

And ready laughter lurks within thine eye. 

Mrs. Norton. 

Even had Reginald’s instances to his mother to become 
an inmate of his new residence in Hamilton place been of a 
very eager nature, Mrs. Blair would have resisted. Of an 
inert disposition, her constitution, enfeebled by early anxi- 
eties, had fallen into premature decay. She was now a 
confirmed invalid — the slave of old Drench the apothecary ; 
who, with wary foresight, assured her that the atmosphere 
of London would be fatal to her impaired health, and that 
she could not do better than remain a fixture at Stoke. 

But young Cressingham was not particularly anxious 
that she should accept the presidency over his new establish- 
ment. He was aware that her habits of life fitted her bet- 
ter for the country ; and that his own were incompatible 
with domestic subservience. Early independence had worked 
its usual evils. He was capricious, inconsistent, and way- 
ward, and though his natural intelligence rendered him fully 
conscious of his own caprice, waywardness, and inconsis- 
tency, he regarded them as a portion of the pleasures of 
youth and prosperity allotted to his enjoyment, not as faults 
to be amended by time. 

Though four months were still to elapse previous to the 
attainment of his majority, he was nearly as much the mas- 
ter of his property as if already of age. The rein was held 
so lightly by Docket and his mother, that, with the excep- 
tion of knowing that his accounts were not to be looked over 
till the ensuing month of August, he had no reason to sup- 
pose himself a minor. Money was always forthcoming on 
his demand ; — bills or creditors, never. 

, It was this, perhaps, which imparted to the nominal fifty 
thousand a-year of young Cressingham, a value almost ideal. 
He was spending at the rate of twice that amount, yet ex- 
perienced no inconvenience from the excess ; — till he was 
VOL I — 7 


06 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


beginning to fed) if not to ihiulc himself in possession of 
Fortunatus’s purse. A sovereign on the throne would 
scarcely have had a more unlimited command of money. 

“ What a lucky dog you are, Cress, to have brought up 
your governor so well ! : ’ — observed Sir Henry Morton, who 
lounged in with Holmeswell to breakfast with Reginald, one 
fine May morning, in order to inspect his new house- 
hold, and ascertain what good was to be extracted out 
of their quondam friend. “ My blackguard kept me on 
bread and water all the time 1 was at college; — an allow- 
ance of eight hundred a year, while your people seem to let 
you do as you like.” 

‘‘To be sure,” observed Lord Holmeswell. “What has 
the old attorney to gain by thwarting him ? Your guar- 
dian was your nearest of kin. Had you died in your minor- 
ity, the savings would have gone to him .” 

“ That was something, perhaps. But the deuce of it was 
that instead of keeping them in a floating sum, to grease my 
wheels at starting in life, my uncle Francis chose to invest 
them every year in the land. What did l want with more 
land ? To be sure, he improved my income. But what 
signifies a few hundreds a year, compared with the com- 
mand of twenty thousand pounds on first entering the 
world ?” 

Lord Holmeswell, stinted to an allowance of five hundred 
a year, sighed at these allusions to thousands of pounds ; an 
aggregation which, for years to come, he was very little 
likely to compass, unless through the hands of the Jews. 

“ Ay, ay ! — you are both lucky dogs,” said he. “If you 
were kept down and kept close as I am, you would no longer 
wonder at having heard me express my regret at Oxford that 
men could not be bom orphans. By the way, Cress, what 
has become of Mrs. Blair?” 

“My mother spends the season in the country,” replied 
Reginald, gravely. “ Site is neither young nor gay enough 
for London life.” 

“By heavens, I never heard of so exemplary a woman,” 
cried Morton ; “ you must have had her built on purpose for 
you ! By the way, this Cressingham man, who is going to 
stand for Wilsbury, must be a nephew of hers, I think ?” 

“ What Cressingham man ?” 

“ They are people with a place near Reading.” 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


67 


“ My grandfather lived at Manny Park,” observed Regi- 
nald, with a rising color, for a thousand painful reminiscen- 
ces had long caused all mention of the name to cease at 
Stoke Paddocks ; the infirm health of Mrs. Blair having, in 
fact, originated the shock of learning that the decision in 
favor of her son’s succession to the family property had 
been the source of loss of reason to her father. 

“ But surely this young fellow cannot be your uncle ?” 
persisted Morton, not noticing Cressingham’s disinclination 
to talk upon the subject. 

“My unele’s son l should imagine. My mother had an 
only brother, who died young, in some dragoon regiment in 
Jndia. He left children. A son of his is in the enjoyment, 
I fancy, of the family estate. I know nothing of any of 
them. There have been law-suits and family feuds. ] was 
not aware that my cousin was old enough to enter into pub- 
lic life.” 

“ I was staying with Ned Finch, near Wilsbury when 
Cressingham wrote to canvass him, in the event of a general 
election.” 

“Well ?” 

“ The name struck me — and his priggish style of writing 
still more. I asked if he were a relation of yours ; nobody 
seemed to know more of him than that he had property in 
Berkshire, and was an out-and-out Tory.” 

“ They all behaved infamously to my mother,” said Reg- 
inald, “ and would have cut my throat could they have done 
so within limit of the law. I trust we may never meet, that 
I may be spared the trouble of showing them how thoroughly 
I despise them.” 

t£ Some day or other, you may chance to cough each other 
down in parliament,” observed Holmeswell. “ Are you as 
red-hot a radical as ever?” 

“ Time enough to trouble myself about politics a year 
or two hence,” replied Cressingham, not choosing perhaps 
to be catechised by one so ill-c[ualified for the task ol cate- 
chtSation. 

His curiosity, however, was painfully excited by this allu- 
sion to a man bearing his name and owning his blood, to 
whom he was to be as a stranger. Already, Reginald had 
be<run to be alive to the value of connexion in London life. 

c> 


68 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Notwithstanding the flippant allusions of his gay associates, 
he saw that those whose families, strengthened by a thou- 
sand aristocratic ramifications, formed the ground-work of 
fashionable society, held a place there unattainable by the 
mere force of wealth. Wherever Holmeswell and Morton 
showed their fastidious faces, they were surrounded by their 
own people. Hands were extended towards them , which 
not even the force of their impertinence could alienate. If 
unpunctual in their engagements, or ungracious in their al- 
lusions, among the Countesses in diamond necklaces, and 
Lady Helens in garlands of roses, their aunts and cousins, 
towards whom Cressinghain felt compelled to use the cere- 
monious courtesies of life, there was always an apology for 
them. “ It was just like Holmeswell !” — or “ it was only 
Harry’s way !” 

When Cressingham, on the contrary, entered a room, he 
felt it to be arrayed in severe judgment against him. No 
indulgent aunt — no affectionate cousins — no influential kins- 
man to bespeak indulgence for the new man ! With the 
exception of half-a-dozen young roues , who found it con- 
venient to have a monied friend who could mount them and 
give them dinners at the Clarendon, not one to say “ God 
save him !” and amid the stir and animation of London life, 
he felt indescribably more lost than in his isolated country 
house. He was surprised to find himself of so little conse- 
quence. Having been taught by Docket to imagine that 
his Oxford popularity and Stoke Paddocks importance must 
pursue him into the haunts of the great world, he could 
scarcely understand how he came to be a grain of sand, 
though a golden one, in the wilderness. 

London is a sad leveller of exorbitant pretensions, — and 
sturdy must be the self-conceit which can stand out against 
its millions of battering rams! — In London, no supremacy 
can be really supreme. Persons of great wealth or emi- 
nent birth command a noble position as regards the up-ga- 
zing multitude. But to their equals, or all but equals, there 
infallibly exists some qualifying circumstance of personal de- 
fect, or ancestral deterioration, some crack or flaw, some 
blot, moral or physical, which keeps down undue hauteur and 
causes the malice of the envious to triumph. 

Vain-glorious people should content themselves with the 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


69 


pomposity of their country seats. — Reginald Cressingham, 
monarch at the Hall, of all he surveyed, and arbitrary as a 
Persian Prince, if he did not exactly expect in London the 
deference tendered to him in his servile neighborhood, was 
not prepared for the thousand modes in which his boyish 
vanity would have to suffer. — After all, he was but the 
c *' rich Cressingham,” — a well-born man — yet still qualified 
only by the voice of the world as the “ rich Cressingham.” 
— He had no prudence, no pride of place. — A late 
noble and eccentrece gourmand used to say, that the only 
advantage of being a peer, was being helped first to fish. — 
There are a thousand similar distinctions to which his lord- 
ship’s age probably rendered him insensible, but to which 
Reginald was painfully alive. His rare distinctions of for- 
tune had placed him in a rank of society where it was im- 
possible for him to be foremost; nay, it frequently happened 
that he was the only man in a dinner-party unprivileged by 
birth. — He could not help fancying, with the soreness of 
self-sufficiency, that on such occasions, certain of the young 
lordships and poor honorables over whom, in every other 
time and place, his opulence assigned him such high pre- 
eminence, triumphed in the occasion of seeing him bring up 
the rear, alone, while they were pairing off with smiling 
beauties. — Thoughun all probability his want of social rank 
never occurred to a single person among those with whom 
habit rendered such honours a matter of course, he suspect- 
ed that Holmeswell and Morton, and more especially a cer- 
tain Gerald Langley, the younger brother of the Earl of 
Ashleigh, who now represented the former suitor of his 
mother, delighted in pomposing over his head. 

In the latter instance, perhaps, he was not wholly mis- 
taken ; for Langley was a striking specimen of the saucy boy 
engendered by a precocious introduction into London life ; 
and the Earl his brother, an amiable unaffected young man, 
seemed to have assigned to him, among the other labors of 
cadetship, that of giving himself airs. Sprightly and ma- 
licious, no sooner did he discover the foible of Cressingham, 
than he paid him off all his old Eton and Oxford grudges, 
by practising upon his infirmity. 

“ Believe me, l am most uaffectedly sorry to hear of this 
disagreeable business,” said he, taking Reginald familiarly 

VOL. I — 7* 


70 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


by the arm, as they issued from the Opera-house the first 
night of the season. 

“ What business?” demanded Cressingham, in some sur- 
prise — having flattered himself that with Athanasius and his 
mother at a distance of forty miles, so nauseous a word 
might be effaced from his vocabulary. 

“ What business? — Oh ! — 1 am very sorry 1 mentioned it 
— I did not think it would annoy you.” 

“ 1 have not the most remote idea of what you are talk- 
ing,” interrupted Reginald, in utter surprise. 

“Then we will say no more about the matter.” 

“ Indeed 1 hope you will, for you leave me in the great- 
est perplexity,” persisted Reginald. 

“ I mean about this blackballing. Pray forgive me for 
the allusion. But as a friend ” 

“ What blackballing? — Who has been blackballed ?” de- 
manded Reginald. 

Gerald Langley stopped short, and affected to stare at his 
companion. 

“ You seem very much amazed,” resumed Cressingham. 
“Surely you can have no objection to explain yourself?” 

“None in the world, if you really desire it. The fact is, 
that the whole house was talking to me of your having been 
blackballed at t lie Travellers, and politely declined by the 
Omnibus.” 

“The Travellers? — I have not even put up yet at the 
Travellers! With respect to the Omnibus, as you are aware 
that 1 have a box of my own for the season ” 

“ That was considered confirmation of the report. No 
young man, they fancied, would do so tigerish a thing as 
have a sulky of his own, if he were able to get into either 
of the Omnibus sets. Somebody consequently reported that 
you had applied for Harry Gordon’s place (who does not 
return from Naples this season), and that there had been a 
general veto.’’ 

“'1 should be very glad to discover who has presumed to 
take so great and unwarrantable a liberty with my name !” 
Cried Cressingham firing up. 

“ My dear fellow, when you are a little more used to 
London, you will discover that everybody takes liberties 
with everybody’s name, particularly with that of a new man; 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


71 


like yourself. Your splendours have taken people by sur- 
prise. They were not prepared for you. Your family not 
having resided in town ” 

“They will find themselves mistaken if they fancy that 
new to London as I may be, I shall pass over any imperti- 
nence of the kind,” interrupted Cressingham, earnestly. 

“ My dear Cress 1” interrupted Gerald Langley in his 
turn — enchanted to find that the young lion was chafed to 
his satisfaction — “ allow me to take the privilege of a friend, 
and give you a word of advice. Beware how you betray 
this kind of susceptibility, or you will bring these false ru- 
mours actually to pass. Nothing so generally detested as a 
touchy man. No one in good society troubles himself about 
the on dits of the world. On the contrary, such attacks, 
like birdpeckson fruit, are accepted as an evidence of per- 
sonal merit. A man who has no enemy is one who does not 
deserve to have a friend. Give and take is the order of the 
day; and unless you can bear badgering, you will do well 
to go and bury yourself at once at Stoke Meadows, with 
that attorney fellow of yours, and be toadied from one end 
of the year to the other ” 

“ Stoke Paddocks,” emended Cressingham, in an under 
tone. 

“ Ay — Maddox ; l forgot the name of your place, — 
though I have not forgotten the capital Burgundy you gave 
us when Ashleigh and I came^over to shoot with you at 
Christmas.” 

“But what could possibly have given rise to the report 
that I had been rejected w'here I never had the least idea of 
making an application ? 1 know none of the Omnibus set.” 

“ Precisely ; which is so singular a thing, that it was 
naturally supposed you might wish to make your way 
among them.” 

“ For what purpose, when I can enjoy a box of my own?” 

“ Oh ! oh ! — a box of your own compared with the com- 
pany of the best fellows in town!” 

“ I have no doubt I might be one of them the very first 
vacancy,” cried Cressingham, beginning to feel dreadfully 
ashamed of the excellent box for which he had paid five 
hundred guineas for the season. 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t say that ,” said Gerald ear- 


72 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


nestly, “ or a party will be made against you immediately ! 
The fact is, that neither you nor 1 could do anything ol the 
kind. There are too many pre-existing claims.” 

Cressingham flinched at the “ you or J,” assuming a 
parity of pretensions between himself and Lord Ashleigh’s 
younger brother. 

“ l am but a boy,” added Gerald, perceiving his annoy- 
ance.” “ This is only my second season in town ; and I 
am too much in fear of being snubbed and getting unpopular, 
to thrust myself into places where I know 1 am not want- 
ed. As to you ” 

“ Well 1 — as to meV ' > — demanded Reginald, finding his 
companion stop short. 

“ As to you , then, since you will have it, — all those 
fellows about town — but why trouble ourselves about them ? 
Do you think it will rain to-night ?” — 

“ With this frost ? — absurd ! — What about these fellows, 
as you call them, about town ?” 

“ Only that I am afraid they are rather shy of you.” 

“ And why pray ?” 

“ Because they have an idea that you are bookish. Your 
Oxford reputation had the start of you here, — and there was 
no one to take your part. It is a deuced bad thing for a 
man who happens not to be at all known, to come out in 
London with the name of being serious, or a pedant, or a 
prig, or anything of that kind. Percy of Maudlin, was a 
regular bookworm, and people were afraid— but it is no use 
talking about it. I dare say you will do something, some 
day or other, to convince the world that you are not dunced 
by too much learning, or starched by too much propriety. 
Meanwhile, if you never were put up at the Travellers, or 
proposed for the Bus, of course the blackballing story falls 
to the ground.” 

Cressingham with a husky voice, now began in bis turn 
to talk of the weather. He was inexpressibly provoked. 
The vast personal importance ascribed to him by his guard- 
ian had not prepared him for slights so wholly unprovoked. 
He felt convinced that Gerald Langley had not told him all. 
He was beginning London life with the reputation of beino- 
a bore. What was the use of having forty thousand a year^ 
if it did not preserve him from the reputation of being a bore ! 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


73 


“Justina was right ! — I am too grave for my a?e,” 
mused he. “For the last year, I have read too much 
Reading incapacitates a man for society, and gives him an 
awkward pre-occupied air, which these people have mistak- 
en for pedantry. They fancy I pride myself on my ac- 
quirements, — when, in fact, no man living can think less 
highly of himself. Well ! sooner than pass for a rustic, I 
suppose I must do at Rome as Romans do.” 

Now the doings of Romans at Rome, that is, of fashion- 
ables in London, though apparently as ostensible as the sun 
at noonday, were a mystery to Reginald. — He attached too 
much importance to the outward shows of things. To keep 
up a splendid establishment in a fashionable quarter of the 
town, was, he fancied, almost enough. When presented to 
the families of the Earl of Maunderwell, and a few others of 
his intimates, he had not the remotest idea how to make 
himself acceptable among them. His manners were shy, 
without being diffident ; and in trying to conceal his gauch- 
iere he often lapsed into ill-breeding ; for the moment people 
cease to be natural, they incur the hazard of becoming vulgar. 

He was stung to the quick by the hint thrown out by 
Gerald Langley, that bis personal consequence was not very 
highly appreciated. The often-repeated lesson of the at- 
torney, to beware of the attentions likely to be forced upon 
him in the world, as evidence of the evil designs of marrying 
young ladies and borrowing young men, had prepared him 
for a very different position. He saw that there was not 
quite so much occasion as be had expected for placards 
against trespassers, either on his time or purse. With the 
exception of obsequious shopkeepers seeking his custom, no 
one invaded his premises. Nobody proposed to him, — no- 
body spunged upon him. His dinners were voted a bore by 
those whose vote was worth having ; and his fashionable 
young friends had horses and cabriolets of their own. 

Apprehensive that people scarcely understood the extent 
of his fortune, he now began to overact his part, with a view 
of bringing down the plaudits of the galleries ; — mounted 
equipages on a vulgarly brilliant scale, and bought off the 
French' cook of a fashionable club. A dangerous attempt ! 
When it was discovered how many people had been in- 
quiring the name of the man in the park whose harness was 


74 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


so gorgeous, and it was rumoured by Morton and Langley 
that, in spite of the merits of the new chef , there had been 
two vacant covers at Cress’s last dinner, further whispers 
arose that “ it was a sad pity poor Cress was likely to prove 
such a failure !’’ 

Like a feeble singer rendering bis debility apparent by 
the exaggeration of his efforts, Reginald, vexed and restless 
wiih labouring to put a good face upon the matter, fell into 
further grimaces. Resolved that his dinners should succeed 
and his house be voted a pleasant one, he invited persons 
renowned for their agreeability, with whom the extent of his 
acquaintance did not warrant so great a liberty ! 

The man who places himself in a position to have his 
advances rejected by another, becomes his inferior. Two 
of the leading fashionables of* the day were known to have 
refused Mr. Cressingham’s invitations in a tone of supercili- 
ous surprise, and from that time, the parasites of fashionable 
life spoke of him slightingly ; — found fault with his taste, 
and by the scarcely perceptible shrugs and smiles which say 
so much and so little, begat a general impression that the 
man whose tastes were thus gaudy, and whose disregard for 
the conventional forms of society arose from no superiority 
of genius, must have the instincts if not the condition of a 
parvenu. 

“ Yes 1 1 believe he is a man of good family. But I 
know nothing about him. Nobody knows anything about 
him, was a sufficient sentence of disparagement when uttered 
at a dandy club, by men without one qualification of intrinsic 
merit, either of heart or head, to impart value to their con-* 
demnation 1 and inflict humiliation on the condemned 1 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


75 


CHAPTER IX. 

Wouldst thou be singled out by partial Heaven, 

The One to whom a cloudless lot is given ? 

Look round the world, and see what fate is there 
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care. 

Hon. Mrs. Norton. 

Poor Reginald ! — Poor rich man ! — The kindlier qual- 
ities of his nature were gradually disappearing. He had 
been taught Greek, Latin, and French, mathematics and 
rhetoric. He had been sent to church on Sundays and to 
school and college the year round. But not one single les- 
son that really strengthens the understanding, refines the 
taste, or warms the heart, had ever been imparted ; Nurse 
Adams was the last person who, in his days of dependency, 
had inculcated precepts of humanity ; and those of t lie at- 
torney had since so effaced that better influence, that his 
egotism was a mere matter of submission to those in author- 
ity over him. His heart had become indurated by maxims 
of worldly wisdom. If any intereslices existed, they were 
becoming inflated by the puffing up of worldly vanity. 

But vanity does not imply self-reliance ; and the suscep- 
tibility which exposed him to the rubs of the envious was 
sufficiently galled to render him wretched. Among those by 
whom his invitations had been rejected, was Lord Asbleigh, 
— a man who, having nothing to obtain from the addition 
of a wealthy man to his acquaintance, saw no inducement 
to throw himself into a circle so uncertain in its composition 
as that of the rich Cressingham. 

The earl belonged to an order of people peculiarly stead- 
fast and regular in their social orbit. The son of a country- 
gentleman-peer, a rigid conservative, a squire in all but his 
patent, young Asbleigh had been habituated from early boy- 
hood to see the same faces, and hear the same subjects 
treated with the same consideration, arising from undeviating 
principles and firmly-rooted prejudices. Himself both intel- 
ligent and enlightened, he was satisfied to take the pleasures 
of life in an easy way, and the duties of life in an earnest ; 
seeking no excessive excitements, — regarding society as a 


76 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


gentle and improving relaxation after much study or much 
business. He was not fond of being startled by the new or 
strange, but preferred the company of people whose persons 
and connexions were known to him, to the showy set which 
lent its forced vivacity or exubreant fashion to the dinner- 
table in Hamilton Place. 

No suspicion, however, would have crossed the mind of 
Reginald that Lord Ashleigh’s plausible excuse of a prior 
engagement was a supposititious one, but lor the bitter in 
sinuations of Gerald. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to invite Ash- 
leigh ?” said he ; “ I would have spared you the vexation 

of . Oh ! he was engaged, he said he was engaged 

did he? — Well, no matter! — But once for all, believe me, 
Ashleigh is quite impracticable. He lives in his own set, 
with people of his own kind with those antecedents he is fa- 
miliar. He won’t mix with strangers !” 

Reginald felt his cheeks burn and his ears tingle, but was 
at a loss for a retort to put an end to the vexatious com- 
mentaries of his companion. 

“ Ashleigh is only to be tempted out of his own circle by 
a great reputation. I don’t mean flashy fellows like Grow- 
lingford, or men who trade upon their learning like your 
friend Percy ; — I mean a man promising to be efficiently 
useful in public life. Our Berkshire neighbor, for instance, 
your cousin, the clever Cressingham ; Ashleigh enjoys noth- 
ing better than a tete-a-tete dinner with him and a dumb 
waiter in the Albany.” 

The arrow struck home as it was intended. Reginald 
saw that his cousin was called the “ clever Cressingham” to 
distinguish him from the “rich Cressingham,” and the name 
of the “ rich Cressingham” became hateful to him. 

“ Lord Ashleigh is perfectly right,” said he, affecting a 
tone of candor. “ Nothing so pleasant as a friendly socia- 
ble dinner, and I trust no one is more alive to the charm 
than myself. But I enjoy a sociable dinner with a friend. 
It is only men like Lord Ashleigh with whom I have not an 
opinion in common, that I ever wished to see en masse under 
my roof, at a set dinner party.” 

“Ay, but that was precisely where you failed.. Had you 
invited him with men who share his habits and opinions en 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


77 


masse, as you describe, lie would probably have come. But 
such lellows as Growlingford ! — Such people as Sir Henry 
Morton and Lord Robert Leigh ! — a noisy vulgar fellow 
like Robert Leigb, who, were lie not the son of a Mar- 
quis ” 

“Well, well, — we will say no more on the subject,” in- 
terrupted Cressingham, with a heightened color. “Robert 
Leigh and Morton are my friends. We shall, 1 trust, sur- 
vive our disappointment of the honor of Lord Ashleigh’s 
company.” 

“ And the more so as you are sure of my majesty’s ; who, 
I flatter myself, am twice as amusing,” cried Gerald, trying 
to laugh off the irritation he had wantonly stirred up. “By 
the way, there is a cousin of mine always boring me to intro- 
duce him to you — Courtfield, — I dare say you know him by 
sight ?’’ 

“ Courtfield ?” repeated Reginald, looking grave and igno- 
rant, — preparing to decline the acquaintance as some sort 
of retaliation upon the slight shown him by Lord Ashleigh. 
“Courtfield? — No, — I know nothing about him.” 

“ I thought you probably knew him, because the Duke of 
Granton his hither, has property in your county.” 

“The Duke of Granton of course, 1 know perfectly by sight 
and reputation,” replied Cressingham, at once annoyed and 
gratified. “ l was not aware that his son was in the world. I 
shall be delighted to make his acquaintance. He is almost 
a neighbor of mine. Pray invite him to come on Thursday 
in the place your brother has left vacant. ’’ 

Gerald bit his lips to conceal a smile ; and when Lord 
Courtfield accompanied him to Cressingham’s dinner party, 
he turned out to be a Westminister boy ! For this, how- 
ever, he did not feel accountable to Cress. It was the bus- 
iness of the host to have been fully aware of the fact. 

By one or two more blunders of this description, a r dicule 
began to be attached to Cressingham’s parties. It was 
said that he had nothing about him but a “pack of boys.’’ Es- 
tablished London men will not compromise themselves by ap- 
pearing among a “ pack of boys.” The boys, left to them- 
selves, out-boyed their boyishness ; and without the smallest 
taste for disreputable orgies or vulgar sprees, Reginald found 
himself more than once disgraced by the consequences of 

VOL. i. — 8 


78 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


frolics, which distinguished the “ rich Cressingham” from 
the “clever Cressingham” more disadvantageous^ than 
ever. 

The newspapers, bribed to discretion, became of course 
unbribably indiscreet. The young man of fortune was now 
and then admonished in italics that there was one law in 
moral England for the rich and for the poor; — and the 
great world, on finding the handsome young man whose 
equipages were so gaudy, thus painfully reproved, expressed 
its fastidious regret that a man of Cressingham’s fortune 
should have fallen into so bad a set. 

To be in a bad set, in the world in which it was his 
weak ambition to shine, is as fatal an imputation as the im- 
press of the branding iron. From almost any other stigma 
he might have redeemed himself. But for a man to all 
appearance able to exercise an independent choice to have 
chosen so ill, could only arise from the instincts of a 
vulgar taste ; few people being magnanimous enough to 
make allowance for the force of circumstances in the desti- 
nies of others. 

While Reginald was experiencing these unlooked for 
mortifications, and discovering that the draught of hyssop is 
not the less. bitter from being quaffed in a golden chalice, 
M rs. Blair, in the languid intervals of indisposition, was 
becoming impatient of his absence, and eager for further 
insight into his proceedings than could be obtained from no- 
tices of his dinner parties in the Morning Post. 

But not even from his guardian, could she extract a word 
of intelligence concerning him whose infancy had been so 
dear to her, whose boyhood so anxious. 

Mrs. Chaffles and one or two other country neighbors, in 
their occasional morning visits, attempted in vain to vary their 
inquiries after her aches and pains, real and imaginarv, with 
questions concerning the pleasures of London, and the part 
taken in them by him whom they considered its leading 
personage. The gentle invalid had nothing to relate. Reg- 
inald's letters made no allusion to balls or drawing rooms. 
She knew no more of what are called the gaieties of the sea- 
son, than little Justina. The utmost she was able to report, 
a mere echo of steward’s-room gossip, regarded the extent 
and splendor of the establishment in Hamilton place. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


79 


“ I suppose, ma’am, we shall soon be having a lady at 
the H all ?’’ was one of the favorite interrogations of the 
Vicaress. — “ Surely so handsome a young man as Mr. 
Cressingham, and so great a match, will scarcely be let 
alone by the London chaperons !” 

“ I trust he will wait. He has plenty of time. My son 
has seen nothing of the world,” was the evasive reply of 
Mrs. Blair, who did not care to acknowledge how totally 
she was in the dark as to his projects or predilections. 
“ At present, he can scarcely know his own mind on such 
subjects.” 

“ He never will know it,’’ murmured Justina, who was 
turning over the leaves of a gorgeously bound Annual on 
the table near them, one of the unmeaning, valueless gifts 
of Reginald to his mother — “ because he knows nothing 
that is not told him bv other people.” 

No one listened — no one replied to the little girl’s sug- 
gestion ; and her elder but less intelligent companions con- 
cluded she was muttering words of kindness to the spaniel 
nestling at her feet. 

“To own the truth, my dear ma’am, I was inquiring of 
Mr. Docket, when he came back from town the other day, 
what likelihood there was of Mr. Cressingham’s settling,” 
added the Vicar’s lady, with a half-confidential air. “But 
not a word could I get out of him 1 — He could talk only of 
Mr. Cressingham’s French cook, Mr. Cressingham’s Opera- 
box, and Mr. Cressingham’s new chariot and curricle. To 
be sure it does seem odd to hear a man of poor Mr. Docket’s 
age and education giving his opinion upon such matters ; 
and quite as much out of the way as my enquiry if there 
was anything like matrimony in the wind, which made him 

so angry.” # 

“JVlr. Docket considered, perhaps, that during Reginald’s 
minority, the less such things are dwelt upon the better. 
Besides, however valuable a friend, he is not exactly the 
confidant a young man like my son would choose on such 
an occasion.” 

“Mr. C ressingham is never hkely to choose a confidant, 
again muttered Justina. — “ He will always fancy he is 
choosing, and submit to be chosen. He does not under- 
stand the meaning of independence,” 


80 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Mrs. Blair was not sorry, meanwhile, to perceive that her 
son’s guardian had been as little communicative to others as 
herself on the chapter of his observations in London, h rom 
a certain air of reserve assumed by Athanasius on his re- 
turn home, she had apprehended that he was in possession 
of some secret concerning Reginald : — that more had been 
confided to him than he had authority to relate. 

It was not likely that a man so artful as the attorney 
should admit, either to others or herself, that his visit to the 
“ rich Cressingham ” in Hamilton place, was a very differ- 
ent thing from his visits to his ward at Stoke Paddocks; 
that in London, the power of his wand had departed. At 
the Hall, Docket was the fountain head of Reginald’s pleas- 
ures and pursuits. In London, he was only an artful attor- 
ney, by whose guardianship the wealthy minor was griev- 
ously hampered. Such persons as Lord Robert Leigh and 
Sir H enry Morton had not been slow in instructing the 
“ rich Cressingham ” in the usual ruinous modes of circum- 
venting the authority of a guardian ; and Reginald, whose 
heart was now thoroughly divested of any amiable weak- 
ness that might have blinded him to the want of principle 
of his guardian, now treated him with the disregard sure to 
arise from disrespect. Conscious that no small portion of 
his social disadvantages arose from the want of considera- 
tion of those in authority over him, he visited upon Docket 
the slights he was receiving. It was a relief to the evil 
feelings engendered by the unfair usage of society, to vent 
upon a self-sufficient inferior the fastidious impertinence he 
was acquiring in so bad a school. 

The attorney had not a foot of ground on which to make 
a stand against the aggressions of his ward. To obtain an 
influence over the boy, he had flung aside all pretension to 
the dignities of virtue, and the young man profited by the 
frailties thus left exposed. Docket’s authority was now 
nominal. Reginald had learned the secret of obtaining 
money without his concurrence ; and the guardian who, for 
his own purposes, had been so long indulgent, cculd not sud- 
denly assume the severe privileges of virtue. 

There was consequently covert war between them. 
Though the same familiarity existed, on the side of Regi- 
nald it was tempered by scarcely disguised jeers ; while, on 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


81 


that of the guardian, it assumed the agonised ease with 
which the keeper at a zoological show thrusts his head into 
the mouth of the lion, or fondles the paw of the hyena, as 
an exhibition to strangers. 

Cressingham was more amused than he had been during 
the last few months of noisy orgies or laborious festivities, 
by the unaffected amazement of Athanasius at the luxuri- 
ous splendor of his domestic arrangements. 

For the last few years, intercourse with fashionable trades- 
men had, in some degree, familiarized the attorney with th§ 
progress of such matters; and he had consequently affected 
to give his opinion, if not the law, to his ward. But he 
was now startled into an admission of utter ignorance. He 
knew not either by name or nature the innumerable objects 
of luxury, — the rare wines, — the curious dishes, — paraded 
before him. To take refuge in disparagement, according to 
the system of Gerald Langley, was out of the question ; nor 
would he affect to spartanize against effeminacy and enerva- 
tion, for it was he who, by cultivating such frivolous tastes 
in Reginald, had striven to entangle him in the golden 
meshes of his own fortune. But he came back from Lon- 
don to Stoke, irritated and mortified at finding himself of 
such small account ; and the contempt he had ever enter- 
tained for the feeble purposes and vacillating mind of his 
ward began to take the form of dislike. From the first, the 
interests of Reginald had been secondary to his own ; but 
he no longer cared to what extent the welfare and happi- 
ness of the callous young man might be compromised by his 
prodigality. 

“ What on earth can this boy mean,” was Docket’s se- 
cret reflection, while riding leisurely, a few days after his 
return to the Hall, through the fine woods of Stoke, “ what 
on earth can he mean by the sudden interest he is pretend- 
ing to take in county politics? I have never heard a 
question from him concerning' his influence or interests; — 
and now, one might fancy he had nothing so much at heart 
as to stand for the county ! — I suspect one of the first 
acts of his majority will be to get into parliament. He will 
not be happy till he has made a fool of himself in some 
public capacity. He stand for the county, — he! a reed 
shaken by the wind 1 — Does he suppose that the county 
vol. i. — 8 # 


82 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


wouid submit its interests to the care of a boy without hab- 
its of business, of knowledge of men or things ? — a boy 
who spends his days among opera dancers and buffoons, — 
who pretends only to be a man of pleasure, and does even 
that badly ? — No ! — they want an active and efficient man, 
Master Cressingham : — not a jackanapes who, because lie 
scribbles halting verses at the university, fancies himself a 
man of genius, — or because he boasts of fanciful carriages 
and a French cook, conceives himself to be a man of fash- 
ion. However, I will attend to his injunctions by brushing 
up to the utmost the Cressingham influence. There will 
be an opportunity for a speech at the tenant’s dinner next 
week, and I will place a few' irons in the fire in other di- 
rections. The time may come for turning all this to ac- 
count. ’’ 

It was not to Athanasius Docket that Reginald was like- 
ly to confide that the motive of his ambition was envy of 
the growing renown of his cousin Richard. The clever 
Cressingham had succeeded. — The clever Cressingham had 
made a hit in pailiament; so great a hit, that he was no 
longer called the “clever Cressingham,” but Cressingham 
only. He was the Cressingham. When people in society 
talked of Reginald, it was still as the rich Cressingham for 
distinction sake ; but the name of the other sufficed. 

“ Yes, r— one of the most rising men of the day,’’ they 
would reply to inquiries concerning the young member; — 
“a distant relation, I believe, of the Cressingham in Hamil- 
ton place, who is said to have cut him out of his fortune 
rather unhandsomely. The money came from a mutual 
cousin.” 

A further slur cast upon Reginald ! Indifferent persons 
are satisfied to take such rumours upon hearsay ; and half 
the world was ready to believe that Cressingham, the mem- 
ber, had been injuriously supplanted by the vulgar fellow 
who sported the showy vis-a-vis. 

The impertinent and groundless suggestion of Gerald 
Langley was now verified. Reginald was really blackballed 
at two fashionable clubs. Of a man less noted, such a 
circumstance would have been related without excilino- 
much interest or sui prise : but for the rich Cressingham to 
be mortified, was a topic of grand interest for the prattlers 
of the world of gossip. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 

P 


83 


To himself, the disappointment was fraught with bitter- 
ness. .though he carried his head higher than ever in con- 
sequence of his vexation, he would willingly have changed 
places with one of the popular younger brothers whom he 
saw courted in society for their family connections or per- 
sonal charms. 

“ You have done too much to conciliate these ungrateful 
people,” was Langley’s exposition of the business. “Be- 
cause they saw you in awe of them, they thought they had 
you hollow^. Pray observe that Holmesw>ell and Morton, in 
spite of their obligations, have done nothing for you in 
society.” 

u I did not want them to do anything for me,” retorted 
Cressingham, at once anxious and afraid to discuss the 
matter. 

“Oh ! yes, you did ; — you are not aw r are of it, — but you 
did. The fact is, you ought to have waited to make your 
debut in town till you were in possession of your fortune ; 
or, if not disposed to remain in eclipse so long, you should 
have at least come out in the full tide of the season, w hen a 
man of your fortune, a perfect stranger, would have been 
swallowed alive as a parti by the ball-giving and match- 
making women. But to throw off, as you did, before the 
season began, at a time when you ought not to have been in 
town at all, unless you were in parliament, — at a time when 
you should have been at Melton or Paris, — anywhere, in 
short, but in London, was a sad blunder, — a blunder it re- 
quired immense tact to get over. You were seen, in the 
first instance, in a bad set ; and such people as Lady Gwen- 
lyn and the Duchess of Penzance could not, of course, take 
you up after that.” 

“ What in the world do I care about such people as Lady 
Gwenlyn and the Duchess of Penzance ?” cried Cressing- 
ham, with undisguised indignation. “ Fine ladies are my 
utter abhorrence. I resolved from the first never to put 
myself up as a target for their impertinence.” 

“ In that case, you are more in the wrong than I fancied,” 
said Langley coolly; for had you insinuated yourself among 
them, you would have been safe from their attacks. It is 
only persons out of the pale of their society of whom they 
ever make a target. You are in much greater danger of 
being shot at as a foe than as a friend.” — 


84 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE, 
% 


u To a man who does not dance and hates scandal,” 
persisted Reginald, “such parties as those of Lady Gwen- 
lyn and the Duchess are a mere nuisance.” 

“ It is a pity you should not dance, however,” rejoined 
Gerald, — “ it would have got you on. Besides, since, you 
do go to balls, it would have been better to be seen at the 
best, instead of starring it among such people as these.” 

And, with a careless hand, he proceeded to throw over a 
stand of invitation cards, containing a variety of highly 
respectable names that were nothing more than highly 
respectable. 

“ 1 have not been to a ball since Easter,” said Cressing- 
ham sturdily. “ I tried the thing, and found it a bore. As 
to Lady Gwenlyn and the Penzance woman, so little attrac- 
tion do I find in them that, only yesterday, Holmeswell 
offered to ask for an invitation to the Duchess’s ball to-mor- 
row night, and I declined.” 

“ You did perfectly right,” replied Langley gravely. 
“ It would have been disgusting to be refused. I know her 
list is full, and that nothing would induce her to have people 
presented to her on such an occasion. It must have been 
because Holmeswell knew you would decline, that he made 
the offer.” 

“ He could know no such thing, for it might have suited 
me to go,” replied Reginald fiercely. 

“ Gerald Langley replied by a provoking smile. 

“ I bet you a hundred guineas that 1 go to the Duchess’s 
ball, if 1 think proper,” retorted Cressingham. 

“ A poor devil like me does not bet in hundreds,” was 
the cool rejoinder of the cool younger brother. 

“ A pony then ?” 

“ A pound, if you will ; but of even that I am unwilling 
to rob you, for I know that the Duchess will refuse.” 

“We shall see !” said Reginald, satisfied that the heavy 
obligations of Lord Holmeswell would insure his utmost 
efforts to secure so simple an object. A total want of the 
tact arising from fashionable experience, caused him to rate 
the value of in vitations to balls on loo level a scale. He did 
not fully appreciate the difference of importance between 
one duchess and another. Having refused numberless invi- 
tations horn persons of the same rank, the possibility of 
being refused in his turn did not present itself. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


85 


He was refused. On requesting Holmeswell to press the 
point with the Duchess, who was a relation of the Maunder- 
wells, he was even pertinaciously refused ; and the nature of 
the bet caused the refusal to transpire. The Duchess had, 
of course, the best of the story. “ She had not the honour 
of knowing Mr. Cressingham, and having a very large ac- 
quaintance, did not wish to increase it.” No one blamed 
her. The Duchess of Penzance was an authority in such 
matters. The Duchess of Penzance could do no wrouo-. 

O 

Had Reginald been rash enough to adventure now a 
similar application in less distinguished quarters, he would 
have been equally unsuccessful. The man whom the 
Duchess of Penzance had refused to know, must be a tiger. 

So far, however, from renewing his attempts to make him- 
self acceptable to the fine ladies whom he professed to hold 
in abhorrence. Cressingham affected to laugh off his re- 
jection as the mere matter of a bet, protesting that he had 
asked for the invitation only for the pleasure of refusing it ; 
and, with boyish levity, he set no bounds upon his sneers at 
the coterie whose imperceptible barriers had thus successful- 
ly kept him at bay. But the usual grounds for such attacks 
were in his case wanting. He could not descant upon the 
venality of match-making mammas; since even the golden 
key he brandished so ostentatiously, had not availed to open 
to him the ivory portals of the sanctuary of fashion. 

Such was the real position of the rich Cressingham to- 
wards the close of his first season in town ! So rapidly 
varied had been the objects of his vain ambition, that he had 
not yet cast up the sum total of his disappointments. That 
more solid portion of society over which he had affected 
superiority, and which enters little into the thin-skinned sus- 
ceptibilities of fashionable life, still regarded him as the for- 
tunate young man in the enjoyment of so fine an estate, who 
was lamentably squandering it away by anticipation ; or 
descanted at their sober dinner tables upon his service of 
gold plate, or the costly pictures and horses, in every pur- 
chase of which he was said to be so complete a dupe ; while 
the second-rate fashionables were never weary ol relating 
anecdotes of his luxurious habits, and dashing excesses. 

His princely establishment was still the marvel of the 
vulgar. Everything that was rarest in the arts or manufac- 


86 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


tures was tendered in the first instance to the rich Cressing- 
ham. Fruit was forced for him a month sooner than for 
other people ; and not a picture dealer, coach maker, or 
jeweller wanting a victim, but was sure to cringe his way to 
the favour of one who felt that it was at least in his power 
to dazzle ; — that if he could not command estimation, he 
might excite envy and wonder. 

With the false judgment created by the influence of 
money on an uncultivated head and heart, instead of per- 
ceiving that mere fortune had not sufficed to insure con- 
© 

sideration, he fancied that his failure arose rather from a de- 
ficiency of fortune ; that he had not done enough ; that 
people expected to see the man of fortune more profuse in 
his habits ; and he consequently lavished thousands upon 
thousands, in pursuit of the roc’s egg wanting to his col- 
lection, — the gorgeous charm which he fancied would bring 
the world to his feet. 

It was not till the first check of his extravagance, by a 
difficulty in raising a considerable sum of money, lost at 
play, which his guardian had declined advancing, that Regi- 
nald had began seriously to inquire of himself what advan- 
tage or what satisfaction he derived from his showy and 
disreputable modes of life. It was a rainy day. His mag- 
nificent drawing room was quite as cheerless as any other 
sunless abode on a rainy day. A few hours’ solitude pro- 
duced by the state of the weather, compelled him to reflec- 
tion. He saw that after the expenditure of a sum more 
nearly amounting to a hundred and fifty thousand pounds 
than he cared to own, he had achieved nothing in London, 
but being bored and laughed at. With all the carriages in 
his coachhouse, all the horses in the stable, all the books in 
his library, all the finicalities in his house, he enjoyed him- 
self no more than Gerald Langely. with his one cabriolet, 
one hack, and a lodging in May Fair ; — nay, far less, — for 
Langely ’s proceedings were not spied upon, nor his place in 
society questioned, nor his conduct scoffed at by the Sunday 
papers. 

The philosophy of a narrow heart and narrow mind, did 
not, of course, reach so far as the discovery that he had 
scattered his riches like smoke, and nearly to as much 
purpose ; that be had done things to be vain of, nothing to 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


87 


be proud of; that he had accomplished no great or generous 
action ; and that the egotism generated by excessive riches, 
is a false appetite, a fiendish craving, which defeats its 
selfish desires by an inherent incapability of gratification. 

“ I am only come in for a moment, my dear Cress !” 
cried Sir Henry Morton, putting a close to his solitary cogi- 
tations by a slap on the back, having entered the drawing 
room unperceived. “It is turning out a fine afternoon. 
Beaconsfield’s drag is at the door. VVe are on our way to 
Lord Maunderwell’s for Goodwood races, and mean to coach 
it the first stage. I got him to stop, that I might beg you 
not to wait dinner for me on Friday, «for I scarcely fancy I 
shall be back in time.” 

“ Goodwood races ? Why couldn’t you tell me you were 
going when you accepted my invitation ?” inquired Regi- 
nald ; surmising, and with truth, that he had been purposely 
kept in the dark, lest he should resent not having been in- 
vited to join the party. 

“I thought of course, you knew it — I settled it with 
Holmesmell the day we dined at the Travellers. Oh ! by 
the way, I forgot that you w'ere not with us.” 

“ You are quite aware that I do not belong to the Trav- 
ellers,” said Cressingham, stiffly. “ But if you do not wish 
to keep to vour engagement with me on Friday, of course I 
shall not press it.” 

“ I am taking down Beaconsfield to old Maundenvell’s 
near Goodwood,” said Morton, looking somewhat awkw'ard, 
“ and as we have promised to remain there for the race-week 
it wmuld break up the party if ” 

“ If you w'ere to adhere to your engagements with me, so 
as not to break up mine,” persisted Cressingham, still more 
angrily. 

“ Nay, nay, — you totally mistake the matter 1” cried 
Morton, trying to put a good face on his discomfiture. 

1 “ The truth is, my dear Cress (and I know’ you are too good- 
! natured to wish to spoil sport) — the truth is that the Maunder- 
wells are wild to catch my friend Beaconsfield for Lady 

I Adelaide ; and they could not well have him staying at 
d Maunderw'ell Court after Hohneswell and I were gone. 

I I However, I will throw over the thing with pleasure, if 


88 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


you have any object in my dining with you that particular 
day.” 

Feeling himself now really aggrieved, Cressingham affect- 
ed to be perfectly satisfied with the excuse ; and hurried off 
his friend to the impatient set whose drag was waiting in 
Piccadilly, attracting the admiring notice of the throng as 
the neatest turn out of the season, and a credit to the taste 
of the young Marquis of Beaconsfield, who was driving it 
in the dress and with the air of that rare anomaly in fash- 
ionable nature, a sporting gentleman. 

But no sooner had Morton quitted the room, than the re- 
pressed ire of his friend burst forth. Lord Beaconsfield was 
precisely one of the men who had fought shy of his acquain- 
tance ; and Holmeswell’s sister, Lady Adelaide North, the 
only girl in London to whom he had felt desirous to render 
himself acceptable as a suitor. The Earl of Maunderwell 
was not a wealthy man. An alliance with the heir of Stoke 
Paddocks was one w hich he had no pretension to despise ; 
and from the attention she received from the family, Cress- 
ingham flattered himself that his attentions w'ere not only 
perceived, but courted. Albeit his habits of life, for fashion’s 
sake rather than from dissolute propensities, were freer than 
might have been supposed likely to recommend him to so 
sober a family as the Maunderwells, he was constantly in- 
vited to their house, — constantly welcomed as the intimate 
associate of Lord Holmeswell ; and if he had not actually 
hazarded his proposals, it was chiefly reluctance to place so 
proud a man as the Earl in collision with a vulgar fellow 
like Athanasius Docket, which had determined him to defer 
the offer of his hand till the attainment of his majority. 

But he had reason to suppose that his preference was 
sufficiently manifest to be protected by Lady Adelaide’s j 
brother. He had said a thousand times in Holmeswell’s pres- 
ence that she w r as the only woman in England whom a 
man in his senses would choose as a companion for life ; and 
though Holmeswell usually selected the moment of such 
declarations to settle his cravat in the glass, or adjust his 
waistcoat, Cressingham found sufficient encouragement in 
his manner to believe himself acceptable as a brother-: 
in-law ! 

And now, to be thus treacherously thrown over. A 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


89 


party at Lord and Lady Maunderwell’s for Goodwood races, 
including all the intimate friends of their son, saving the 
rich Cressingham, was itself an affront ; but a party made 
expressly by Holmeswell, to give the Marquis of Beacons- 
field an opportunity of paying his addresses to Lady Adelaide, 
was an “ ungrateful injury,” beyond the reach of patience ! 
Holmeswell, to whom he had lent his money, his horses, his 
carriages, his dogs, his guns, — Holmeswell, who would not 
so much as lend him his countenance in return, — Holmes- 
well was a double-dyed traitor! 

Till now, with the irresolution common to feeble charac- 
ters, he had been uncertain as to the amount of his admira- 
tion for Lady Adelaide North. If fully alive to her merits 
as a well-born, well-bred girl, — admirably brought up and 
peculiarly qualified to preside over a noble establishment, — 
with the fastidiousness of a disposition, if not naturally cold, 
iced by the artificial chill of fashionable life, he had some- 
times allowed himself to doubt whether she were pretty 
enough to do honor to his taste; and whether, in the Pen- 
zance and Gwenlyn coterie there might not exist metal more 
attractive. 

But born the moment that he was compelled to regard 
her as the future Marchioness of Beaconsfield, and wife to 
the man who had not considered him good enough to dine 
with, the lovely mortal rose into a divinity. 

He had no further hesitation in perceiving that he was 
desperately and irretrievably in love with Lady Adelaide. 
It was his passion for her that had been the secret cause of 
his recent langor and ennui. It was her presence that had 
been wanting to complete the attraction of the house where- 
in so much damask and ebony, and such fine pictures and 
sculpture, were lavished in vain. It was her affection that 
had been necessary to his happiness. It was her influence 
which, unsuspected by himself, had been gnawing at his 
heart ; and the day of her marriage with Beaconsfield would 
render him a wretch for life. 

The moment a man makes up his mind to admit to him- 
self that he is in love, it is amazing what confirmation he 
finds in circumstances, previously irrelevant, to strengthen 
his passion. The preceeding day, he would scarcely have 
driven his cab so far as the gate of Kensington Gar- 
VOL I — 9 


90 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


dens for tbe certainty of a walk there with Lady Maun- 
derwell and Lady Adelaide North. Now that he conceived 
her on the point of being lost to him for ever, he would 
willingly have yachted to Egypt for the chance of a meet- 
ing- 

After a severe struggle with despondency, it occurred to 
him that an interview might still turn the scale in his favor. 
There wanted only a month to the attainment of his major- 
ity. No obstacle need prevent his offering his hand to Lady 
Adelaide ? and from the graciousness with which she had 
always received the attentions of her brother’s friend, he 
had good right to infer the possibility of her acceptance. 
She might entertain no projects upon the Marquisate of 
Beaconsfitdd, though her parents promoted the match. In 
fact he owed it to her to give an opportunity of making her 
election. 

But how was this to be effected ? To address a letter to 
the Earl or Countess, in the very teeth of his knowledge of 
their present views, would have been absurd ; to address 
one to the young lady herself, contrary to the usages of a 
family so formal. A personal interview was difficult to 
accomplish, since it was impossible for him to intrude into 
the house with a party staying in it which he felt he ought 
to bgVe received an invitation to join. 

Goodwood, at least, was neutral ground. There was no 
reason he should not go down to the races, and take the 
chance ol an opportunity. He had declined two invita- 
tions to houses in the neighborhood ; one from Sir Giles 
Snaffle, a man better known on the turf than elsewhere, 
who had a noisy party staying with him at Bognor ; — the 
other, from Sir Carnaby and Lady Riddlemere, whose fami- 
ly place was at no great distance from Lord Maunderwell’s 
and who, having three daughters to marry, were civil to the 
rich Cressirigham, both on Lord Holmeswell account and 
his own. To appear at the races, would be an act of un- 
graciousuess towards all these people ; and it was only by 
making it a lark, and going down with Gerald Langley at 
an early hour on the morrow, as fast as a britschka-ar.d-four 
would carry them, to return at night, that the thing appeared 
practicable. — 

Practicable it certainly was, as far as money could make 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


91 


it. Langley, an idle guardsman, was well content to get 
rid of a vacant day, towards the close of the season, at the 
expense of Cressingham’s company ; and unaware of the 
motives and object of his companion, it was not his business 
to suggest that their sudden appearance unconnected with 
the parties at Goodwood or in the neighborhood, might ap- 
pear to require explanation. 

The weather, however, in a July previously devoted to 
St. Swithin, proved so propitious as apparently to justify 
their exploit, in spite of the early hour at which it had forced 
them from their pillows ; and had not Reginald been fever- 
ishly anxious as to the result, he might really have found 
pleasure in a journey smoothed and accelerated by the spell 
which rendered his journeys all but imperceptible. The 
two young men enjoyed each other’s society as most young 
men enjoy each other’s society on such occasions, by sleep- 
ing one half the way, and smoking the other; when, lo ! 
on arriving a few miles from Goodwood, it suddenly occur- 
red to Gerald Langley to exclaim against the strangeness 
of C ressingham’s not being at Maunderwell Court. — 

“ Holmeswell was aware that I had refused Snaffle and 
the Riddlerneres,” was Reginald’s embarrassed reply, — “ so 
that it would have been an idle compliment to ask me.”- — 

“ But it would not have been an idle excuse to Sir Giles 
and the Riddlerneres, if you had been able to say that you 
were previously engaged to Lord Maunderwell,” persisted 
Langley. — u I don’t understand those Maunderwell people. 
They seem to me to be acting a double part towards 
you.” — 

11 Or rather no part at all,” replied Reginald in a tone of 
pique. “Their conduct with me has been as simple as 
mine with them. — l am one of the numerous college friends 
of their son, and Holmeswell one of mine. Neither of us 
is all-in-all to the other, and we treat each other accord- 
ingly ” ... 

“ But you certainly don’t treat Lady Adelaide as if site 
were only one of your numerous friends or acquaintances,” 
rejoined Gerald with a smile ; “ and from something I saw 
at the Opera on Saturday night, I strongly suspect Holmes^ 
well has been deucedly false in that quarter. I have seen 
him encourage your attentions to her on a thousand occa- 


92 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


sions. At that Richmond party last week, for instance, you 
must recollect that it was he who pushed you into the boat 
with his mother and sister, when you proposed driving home 
with Morton. — 1 was surprised at his conduct at the mo- 
ment, because I own it seemed to me unlikely that Lord 
and Lady Maunderwell would ever consent to — however, it 
is all plain enough now. 1 am convinced they were playing 
you off against Beaconsfield, to draw him on.” — 

Thrown off his guard by his usual susceptibility to taunts 
of this description, Reginald vehemently protested that 
Langley was mistaken. — that he had no views upon the 
hand of Lady Adelaide North, and the Maunderwells none 
upon that of the Marquis of Beaconsfield. 

“With all my heait, since you choose to have it so,” 
cried Gerald, — again taking out his cigar-case, as if deter- 
mined to close all conversation between them for the re- 
maining few miles. “Indeed I am heartily glad to hear 
you deny it ; for should any one attack me on the subject 
at Goodwood (as will probably be the case with Lady Ade- 
laide and yourself on the course, and the report so preva- 
lent), 1 shall answer that I have your own authority for de- 
claring your perfect indifference. 

Reginald was puzzled. He saw to what mischief such a 
protestation on the part of one of his intimates might expose 
liis courtship, and tried to back out of the dilemma. — 

“Ibe less said upon such subjects the better!” said he. 

Lord and Lady Maunderwell would have every right to 
be displeased if they found me making gratuitous declara- 
tions of indifference to their daughter.” 

Since that is the case, I will be as discreet as you 
please, replied Langley, with a significant smile. — “ But 
if L af ly Adelaide North is to have no share in our expedi- 
tion to-day, may I ask what makes you so much more on 
the qui vive about Goodwood races, this year, than you 
were about Epsom or Ascot ?” 

“ Ascot perhaps inspired me with a taste for Goodwood,” 
replied Cressingham evasively ; for I have one or two heavy 

bets— In fact, I am beginning to feel a considerable interest 
in the turf.” — 

“The deuce you are !”— was Langley’s rejoinder; “I 
am truly sorry to hear it!” added he, a moment afterwards, 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


93 


with an air of hypocritical sympathy ; “ and I beseech you 
to beware, my dear Cress, how you make such an admission 
before Snaffle or his set, or you will be snapt up in a mouth- 
ful ! — To be attempted with safety, the turf requires as steady 
an education as the church ! You have been brought up 
out of the line of such things, and at present are not the 
least fit to be trusted among all those knowing fellows.” — 

In the act of retorting, Reginald was silenced by a cloud 
of dust ; and lo ! from a beautiful by-road, overshadowed 
with lofty elms as if leading towards the gates of some fine 
seat, emerged a train of carriages containing a joyous, laugh- 
ing, chatting party, headed by Lady Maunderwell’s ba- 
rouche, in which sat the Countess and her daughter, Mor- 
ton and Beaconsfield The Marquis placed auspiciously 
opposite to Lady Adelaide, was bending towards her as they 
passed ; and a smiling blush avouched the happy intimacy 
already established between them. 

Reginald saw at a glance, even without the malicious in- 
terpretation of Langley to guide his observations, that Bea- 
consfield was a favored, if not an accepted lover. To press 
his attentions under such circumstances, could only tend to 
further mortification. He had clearly travelled his sixty 
miles in vain ! 

Instead, therefore, of joining the Maunderwell party he 
attached himself at once to that of Sir Giles Snaffle, — affected 
the most eager interest in the sport of the day ; and in the 
dead of night returned to town, stupified by he knew not 
exactly how many bottles of champagne, to wake the next 
morning with an excruciating headache, and the agreeable 
certainty of having paid for his footing on the turf to the 
amount of he knew not exactly how many thousands of 
pounds ! 

VOL. I — 9 # 


94 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain, 

And these reciprocally those again. 

Cowper. 

“Look here !” was the first exclamation of Gerald Lang- 
ley, when they met in the afternoon at Crockford’s, the only 
fashionable club into which, over a bridge of gold, Reginald 
had made his way. And on examining the paper held out 
by h is officious friend, the first paragraph that met the eye 
of Cressingham was an announcement of his approaching 
marriage with Lady Adelaide North ; all the usual editorial 
arabesque of “ amiable and accomplished,” and “ hymeneal 
altar,” being profusely lavished in honour of the nuptials of 
the Man of Fortune. 

“ How absurd, but how annoying!” exclaimed Reginald, 
for once startled into frankness, — “'doubly annoying just 
now, too, when — l wonder what steps 1 ought to take on 
such an occasion?” — said he, suddenly interrupting himself. 

“ None, 1 should imagine. The best way of dealing with 
such reports is to let them die as easily as they were born ; 
and you will, at least, enjoy the satisfaction of laughing in 
your sleeve at the multitude of blockheads by whom you 
will be pestered with congratulations.” 

So far, however, of laughing, either openly or inwardly, 
Reginald was slung to the quick by the good wishes poured 
in upon him on the occasion. Everybody assured him that 
they had long perceived his attachment to Lady Adelaide ; 
that they heartily wished him joy of the success of his suit ; 
that it was a choice which did honour to his taste, and that 
he was about to become the happiest of men. The cruel 
eligibilities of the match were pointed out with circumstan- 
tial persecution. In vain did he deny the soft impeachment ; 
he was assured that such negatives went for nothing. 
Everybody was resolved to be aware that he was desperately 
in love; and everybody enchanted that Lady Adelaide 
North should have consented to reward his attachment. 
Thoroughly harassed and annoyed, Reginald was beginning 
to devise some means of terminating the erroneous impres- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


95 


slons of his friends, when another formal paragraph took 
justice into its hands. The Morning Post was “ empowered 
by authority to deny the report of an approaching marriage 
between Lady Adelaide North and a certain wealthy com- 
moner !” 

“ Now, as the “ wealthy commoner” had given no “au- 
thority” for the denial, it was clear that the refutation must 
proceed from Lord Maunderwell’s family ; and though 
privileged to declare the truth on such an occasion, Regin- 
ald felt unreasonably sore at the promptitude with which 
they had flung off the imputation. He fancied that people 
smiled significantly when they begged his pardon for having 
been so premature in their felicitations ; and was quite cer- 
tain of the significance of their smiles when, the following 
week, further “authority” enabled the morning papers to 
announce that the marriage of “ the Marquis of Beaconsfield 
with the Lady Adelaide North, would take place early in 
the month of August.” This time, newspaper intelligence 
conveyed the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. If anything could have aggravated his irritation at 
such a moment, it would have been the apparently frank 
and friendly letter by which Lord Hohneswell announced 
the approaching event. 

“ I am sure you will sympathise in Addy’s happiness,” 
wrote his obliging and obliged friend. “ Beaconsfield has 
long been the man of her choice ; but there have been 
family objections, which are now happily removed. By the 
way, my dear Cress, as the period of your coming of age is 
approaching (when l suppose a general settlement of your 
affairs is tolake place), pray do me the favour to send the 
mems. of the money vou kindly lent me at Oxford, to my 
father’s solicitor, who has orders from him to settle them, f 
could not remember the exact amount, or would have for- 
warded a cheque ; for the governor is just now in such 
famous good humour at Addy s marriage, that he has agieed 
to book up for me. I am consequently almost as happy a 
do cr just now as Beaconsfield, who is over head and eais in 
love, and appears a capital good fellow.” 

Though Reginald’s bankers had been looking very glum 
for the last ten° days, and had even ventured a slight hint 
that they would prefer postponing further advances till the 


96 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


attainment of their constituent’s majority should render his* 
signature legal, gladly would he have dispensed with the 
repayment of the eighteen hundred pounds forwarded to him 
shortly afterwards by the man of business of the Earl of 
Maunderwell, and retained Holmeswell in a state of obliga- 
tion. He saw through the insolence of the case. The man 
they had injured was to be paid off. All friendship between 
the parties was at an end ! — 

In a worldly mind mortification is sure to beget reckless- 
ness. Reginald's irritation of soul rendered him desperate, 
that is, desperately gay, noisy, and prodigal. It was a time 
of year when few people remain in town but those wedded 
to the dissipations of the season by undomestic habits ; 
people who adhere to the parks, the clubs, and the opera, 
after the better frame of society is broken up. Among these, 
it was easier for the rich Cressingham to obtain notice, than 
in the soberer congregation of the Maunderwell world ; and 
the orgies of his house, and wildness of his exploits, acquir- 
ed a still increasing notoriety. 

When the gaieties of London were at an end, he was to 
hurry to the Highlands, where a capital moor had been en- 
gaged for him for the season ; and Lord Robert Leigh, Ger- 
ald Langley, and half a dozen of the noisy boys with whom 
he delighted to surround himself, had promised to meet him 
at Loch Maylan, and accompany him back to Stoke for 
partridge-shooting. In the interim, the attainment of his 
majority was to be celebrated. But it would be as easy to 
close his accounts with his guardian in September as in 
August ; and Docket could preside over the tenants’ dinner, 
and superintend the roasting of oxen and ringing of church 
bells. No other duty occurred to him which might not be 
performed by deputy. That on such an occasion anything 
was due to his mother, utterly escaped his recollection. 

While Reginald Cressingham accordingly, on pretence of 
grouse-shooting, was inflaming his blood with whiskey, after 
losing his money at hazard to the friends who had consented 
to sacrifice their time to share his expedition to the High- 
lands, Athanasius was recommending himself to the favour 
of the neighbourhood by his hospitality, courtesy, and con- 
sideration. The tenantry, to whose interests he had ever 
paid the most scrupulous attention, talked of subscribing for 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


97 


a piece of plate in his honour; and the cool decision of his 
conduct on many occasions of county emergency, so favour- 
ably contrasting with the feeble indolence of his last patron 
and the boyish levity of his present, caused more than one 
gentleman of the county to regret that his kingdom as guar- 
dian was about to be taken from him, and that they should 
shortly have to co-operate with the thriftless young man, 
whose foliies they ascribed to the weak indulgence of his 
mother rather than to the artful encouragement of his 
guardian. 

The infi rm health of Mrs. Blair was a bar to all inter- 
course with the neighbourhood ; and the mutual position of 
Athanasius and his ward had consequently only been ex- 
posed to the observation of a few parties of dissipated young 
men, not likely to exercise much judgment on the case ; 
who saw in the attorney the most blameless, because the 
most acquiescent of Mentors. Even the Drench and Chaffles 
tribe had been so assiduously propitiated by the neighbour- 
ly offices of Docket, and so cruelly alienated by the insolent 
slights of the haughty young man to whom they bad shown 
kindness when a neglected boy, that they were far readier 
to sympathise with the enormous amount of trouble and 
anxiety which the dashing ward had occasioned to the ex- 
cellent guardian, than to surmise what amount of pecuniary 
advantage might have accrued to the excellent guardian 
from the follies of his profligate ward. 

It was edifying to perceive with what submission Athan- 
asius Docket received the officious advice mumbled into bis 
ears by the old Vicar touching the order of the festivities 
about to commemorate the coming age of their patron. It 
might have been supposed that the guardian was purposely 
proposing an impossible site for the construction of the 
grates that were to roast the oxen, in order to stand correct- 
ed by Dr. Chaffles; and that his arrangements for doles to 
the poor were intentionally absurd, in order that the \ icar 
might originate a more appropriate scale. 

Even to Drench, he was condescendingly conciliating ; 
the only petition of the family apothecary being that the 
rejoicings and tumults of the day should be kept as far as 
possible° out of hearing of The Wilderness ; — his poor ner- 
vous patient being now apothecaried into so deplorable a 


98 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


conditicyi of body and mind, that her sole anxiety, on occa- 
sion of an event for the accomplishment of which her best 
days had been sacrificed was to escape the noise of platoons 
and bob-majors ! — 

With the co-operation of the other “ professional advisers 
of the Cressingham family,” Docket took care that the de- 
monstrations usual on such occasions should far exceed even 
those which had commemorated the close of the law-suit ; 
and there was twice as much shouting, and quite as great an 
effusion of strong beer, as if the shouters and drinkers had 
cared a straw w'hetber the young squire were to be hanged 
on the morrow. 

Of all wdio surveyed the festivities of the day, little Justina 
alone noticed that the only people who seemed to regard the 
28 th of August w'ith utter unconcern, were the man to 
whom it assigned independence for life, and the woman 
w'hose only son it invested with the dignities of manhood. 
It was not for her to surmise that the mind of the woman 
thus pensively secluded from observation, might be wander- 
ing back with regret to the time when the babe which that 
day bestowed upon her, was her only earthly joy ; when 
there w r as less gilding upon her furniture, but more sunshine 
in her heart ; and that one such whisper as that of the shy, 
gentle boy on the gaining of their lawsuit, — “Thank God, 
dearest mother, your troubles are over !” — would have 
created greater exultation in her bosom than all the con- 
gratulations of her neighbours on his imaginary engagement 
with the daughter of an Earl, or the discharge of cannon 
that announced his being at full liberty to play the fool. 

For though ungifted to argue sagely on the changes 
wrought in the nature of her son by the hardening sunshine 
of prosperity, Mrs. Blair w r as sufficiently observant to per- 
ceive how slight her hold upon his affections ; that he had 
learned to consider her rather as one of the trees upon the 
estate, than as his sole remaining link of union with his kind ; 
that he had not a thought or feeling in common with one 
whom it was his first duty to love and honor ; — and more of 
her peevish valetudinarianism than the neighborhood sup- 
posed, was attributable to the silent consciousness of having 
a thankless child. 

So limited, indeed, was now the intercourse between them 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


99 


that she was indebted to Docket for information that Regi- 
nald was to be at home on the 1st oi September, to open 
the shooting season ; and almost trembled at the idea of his 
re-appearance at Stoke with uncontrolled freedom of action, 
backed by companions as reckless, if not as potential as 
himself. 

He came at last ; — and the increased hauteur of his man- 
ners, and coarseness of his pleasures indicated that the moth- 
er’s fears were not altogether groundless. Sanctioned by 
the encouragement of Lord Robert Leigh, Gerald Langley, 
and the rest of his roue associates, he affected to treat with 
his ex-guardian as with a pettifogging attorney, a money- 
lending usurer; and had any but the noisy, witless crew of 
Reginald’s, hangers-on witnessed the Shylock-like submis- 
sion of Athanasius to the contumely of his ward, they would 
have perceived that there was mischief brewing under so 
smooth a surface. 

The accounts of the wily guardian had passed triumphant- 
ly through the hands of the Master in Chancery ; and all 
that met the eye being sound and reasonable, he had noth- 
ing to fear. It only remained for him to obtain a general 
release from his ward ; who, unable to controvert the evi- 
dence of his own signatures of receipt for monies levied in 
his behalf, and appalled by the terrible array of figures 
through which he was compelled to wade in the course of 
the two mornings in which, after hurrying up to town, he 
was passed, like a brief, from lawyer to lawyer, was right 
glad to confirm the documents prepared for him, and slink 
away from the disagreeable consciousness of having fore- 
stalled three years’ income, and having no one but himself 
to blame for it ! 

Disgusted as people are sure to be with the instruments 
who have ministered to their vices, his only agreeable an- 
ticipation on coming of age was that of breaking all further 
connexion with Docket. Even through the scrupulous ob- 
sequiousness of Athanasius, Reginald discerned the dislike 
engendered by his insolence ? and so lar from accusing him- 
self as- the originator of a resentment so naturul, sought ref- 
use in the triumph of flinging him off for ever. 

The most vindictive monarch, premeditating the dismis- 
sion of an obnoxious minister, never more eagerly waited 


100 


TIIE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


liis opportunity than Cressingharn for signifying to Athana- 
sius that he was in no further need of his professional ser- 
vices. The man of fortune intended to do an ungracious 
thing in the most ungracious way. tie meant to convey 
the intimation through his steward by a formal letter, to be 
delivered to the ex-guardian on his re-appearance at the 
Hall; and scarcely could he repress the avowal of his in- 
tentions when, after executing the formal deed of release 
upon their private accounts, Athanasius somewhat hurriedly 
withdrew from his presence. 

No sooner had Docket left the room than the solicitors in 
whose hands the deeds w'ere deposited, placed in his own 
an open letter, which he proceeded mechanically to peruse, 
as probably connected with the plagues of the day. It 
contained, however, the formal resignation of Athanasius as 
man of business to the Cressingharn family ! — Foreseeing 
his project, the attorney was beforehand with him I 

In no very pleasant temper, therefore, did Cressingharn 
return home, where his visitors had been making merry 
during his absence. He felt that he had been outwitted ; 
and that coming of age was a less agreeable epoch in a 
spendthrift’s life than the world is apt to esteem it. The 
hateful evidence of his impoverishment had passed before him 
phantasmagorically, in the shape of parchments and pa- 
pers without end ; and now he had to confide Iris misdoings 
and miscalculations to a new' man of business, by whom he 
should be still further plundered and tormented. 

Averse to all moral exertion, he resolved at all events to 
defer as long as possible the nuisance of developing these 
perplexities. Bob Leigh and the rest of the party were to 
remain with him another week, to attack the remainder of 
his preserve ; and on their departure he would return to 
towm, and select a proper person to receive from Docket the 
family accounts and papers still in his custody. 

Hitherto, not a care of this description had been allowed 
to molest him. At Stoke, everything had passed through 
the hands of Docket ; and unless to sign receipts for the 
sums provided for his prodigality, he was scarcely in the 
habit of putting pen to paper. But now', day after day, the 
post brought down piles of letters from unsatisfied claim- 
ants, and demands from money-dealers with whom the re- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


101 


cent London season had brought him acquainted, demanding 
immediate attention, till he began to curse the epoch of in- 
dependence which rendered him dependent on himself. A 
succession of importunities and appeals to his honor and 
sense o( justice, compelled him to pay away the whole of 
the ready money in his banker’s hands. Follies to which 
he had scarcely given a moment’s thought in the perpe- 
tration, came back to him in the shape of goldsmiths’ bills, 
picture-dealers’ accounts, and horse-dealers’ promissory 
notes ; and few but those who have had occasion to exam- 
ine the affairs of a wealthy minor, would give credit to the 
nature of some of these records of extravagance. 

Paid, however, they must be ; and ignorant of the nature 
of his property or the exact mode in which it was hampered 
Reginald felt ashamed at the idea of commencing his inter- 
course with his new man of business by a confession of such 
gross absurdities ; and when, shortly afterwards, he was ap- 
prised by his steward that the period for the payment of 
Mrs. Blair’s annual allowance had been some days past, and 
that for weeks to come he should not have in his hands 
the means of satisfying the demand, Reginald, after explo- 
ding into imprecations infinitely terrifying to an old man 
accustomed to more formal habits of business, began to feel 
that his rupture with his factotum had been, to say the least, 
inopportune. Harassed by applicants, who, finding their 
letters unattended to, came in person to remind him that 
he was now of age, Reginald gave tokens of the perturbed 
state of his mind by scarcely concealed impatience of the 
noisy profligacy of his companions. 

“ What on earth is the matter with you Cress ?” said 
Gerald Langley, who was the first to take leave, on discov- 
ering Reginald’s spirits begin to flag. “Is your digestion 
failing? or are you fretting at not being invited to this fa- 
mous battue at Beaconfield’s ? — I swear I believe you have 
never got over Lady Adelaide’s marriage ! But pluck up, 
my dear fellow ! — One ball in Hamilton Place next season, 
and you will have all the girls in London at your feel. 
You can get some one to ask the company for you, and the 
pretty Marchioness to preside. She owes you that after 
throwing you over so shamefully.” 

VOL. i. — 10 


102 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


“ Still more impertinent were the surmises of Lord Rob- 
ert Leigh. 

“ You seem monstrously hipped, old fellow. What has 
set your teeth on edge ? Has Cressingham’s clever speech 
at the Liverpool dinner put your nose out of joint ? — or 
have you been feeling your way with Langley about getting 
invited to Ashleigh Park for the holidays, where they have 
resolved not to have you ?” 

To admit the truth of his situation to associates so devoid 
of sympathy, was out of the question ; and it was no small 
relief to Reginald when the last of the party took leave, and 
he was released from their galling interrogations. 

His first impulse, on finding himself alone, was to go and 
spend the evening with his mother. It was very long since 
he had attempted an evening at The Wilderness; and his 
conscience smote him as he walked thither across the park, 
now cheerless with falling leaves and a November fog, 
towards the little domain once so dear to him, which he 
had of late shunned as the refuge of all that was depressing. 

After the wild excesses of the last eight months, there 
was something almost preternatural, something that acted 
on his feelings like a charm, in the aspect of his mother’s 
quiet sitting room, nothing in which had varied by the 
breadth of a hair during his absence. His morning visits 
were always as hurried as possible ; and little had he antici- 
pated so great a need of human sympathy as now conveyed 
him to his mother’s quiet tea-table for the solace of com- 
panionship. At that moment, he was more in want of an 
affectionate heart, however simple, however ignorant of the 
world, to be interested in his cares, than of all the wit, wis- 
dom or fashion, of fastidious London life. 

. Mrs. Blair, though unable to abstain from the eostom of 
invalids, of inflicting upon him the prolix details of her suf- 
ferings, was silenced the moment she discerned in his absent 
looks that he had sufferings of his own. A mother’s eye is 
not to be deceived ; and the first suspicion that he was un- 
happy, made him her son again. 

But the tenderness of her inquiries rebuked his conscience, 
and reduced him to silence. Conscious that it was the 
difficulty of doing justice to a claim of hers which at that mo- 
ment produced his greatest perplexity, he assured her that 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


103 


he had nothing on his mind, — that the loss of his friends had 
perhaps put him out of spirits ; and he began to talk of Lon- 
don and its gaieties, in a tone of joyousness that might have 
satisfied anything but the craving of a parent’s ear. 

“ I am sure there is something the matter, dearest Regi- 
nald,” said she. “ You are looking quite ill. I am sadly 
afraid the gay friends who have been staying with you have 
led you into excess. Do see Drench to-morrow, my dear 
son; 1 am persuaded Drench would be able to set you up 
again.” 

“ 1 am rather afraid not , mother,” retorted he, with a 
smile, touched by a tone of anxiety to which he was so 
little accustomed. 

“ Then I am sure you have something on your mind ! 
Some attachment perhaps? I am afraid the marriage of the 
young lady to whom the newspapers announced your en- 
gagement, has vexed you ?” 

“ On the contray, my dear mother, I consider myself 
fortunate to have escaped offering my hand to a girl who 
evidently had not a shadow of regard for me.” 

“Then what can be the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Blair. 
“Ah ! my dear Reginald, if, rolling in riches as you are, 
you will still find cause for discontent, who can expect to be 
happy ! — With such a fortune as yours — ” 

“Even such a fortune as mine may be impaired by such 
extravagance and ignorance of business as mine,” said Reg- 
inald hastily. 

“Impaired? — your fortune impaired ?” — retorted Mrs. 
Blair, with a smile. “ You do not know what you are talk- 
ing of! — Mr. Docket has often told me that your rent- 
roll will be little less than fifty thousand a-year !” 

“My rent-roll, perhaps. But the times are bad. A 
man is lucky who can reckon on two-thirds of his rent-roll. 
— If, however, mine were safe in full, I have bespoken it 
shamefully ; and money is not so easily raised as you may 
fancy.” 

“Money raised ?” — repeated Mrs. Blair, who, among 
the evils she had conjectured for her son, certainly never 
anticipated deficiency of means — “My dearest Reginald, if 
you are in any want of money, for goodness’ sake apply 
tp the bankers for my half-year’s allowance, which must 


104 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


have been paid in a fortnight ago, and which I have never . 
touched.” 

Reginald’s color rose. The generous promptitude of his 
mother conveyed a cruel reproof. 

“ But why allow yourself to be annoyed by such mat- 
ters, my dear boy ?” persisted Mrs. Blair, unwilling, even i 
for the assuagement of her fears, to dwell upon a topic i 
evidently distasteful to Reginald. “ Why not refer every- t 
thing to Docket ? — Docket is so ready in every emerg- 1 
ency 1” — 

“ Mr. Docket has ceased to act as my agent,” was Regi- 
nald’s cold reply. 

“ The report was true then ! Tt was mentioned to me by 
Mrs. Chaffles, but I could not believe it. Oh ! my dear 
Reginald ! Docket may not be a man of polished manners, I 
but so old a friend — so faithful a servant of the family — 
How could you dismiss him !” 

“ My dear mother, he dismissed me. Mr. Docket has J 
grown too great a man for business.” 

“ Apply to him, then, for his advice as a friend.” 

“ 1 suspect he would make no answer to such an appeal, i 
Either he took affront at some imaginary slight ; or, aware * 
of the perplexities about to beset me, threw up the tangled i 
skein just at the moment it was getting too involved for , 
him.” 

Still, however, Mrs. Blair persisted in her entreaties to ■ 
him to appeal to the counsels of the only man familiar with 
the nature of his property and resources. 

“ I agree with you that the fellow is the only man likely 
to get me out of all these cursed scrapes,” said Reginald. 
“ In fact, I am beginning to feel that he is an inevitable evil. 
But I cannot commit my own dignity by courting him 
back.” 

Having succeeded in persuading Reginald, it was easy for 
his mother to indulge the surliness of his false pride, by 
extending an olive branch in his name. A letter purport- 
ing to bring back Docket to Stoke Paddocks, was instantly 
indited by Mrs. Blair. 

But alas ! the missive was unsuccessful. — Mr. Docket 
was absent from home. — Mr. Docket was gone on business 


THE MAN - OF FORTUNE. 


105 


into Wales. — His servants could give no certain intelligence 
of his return. 

M rs. Blair persisted, however, in her advice to her son to 
refrain from intrusting his affairs to the hands of strangers. 
Docket could not very long absent himself. — For a few days, 
matters might remain as they were. 

Little did she suspect to what painful importunities her 
dear Reginald would be exposed in the interim ; little did 
she imagine how thoroughly Athanasius had calculated and 
foreseen the consequences of his prolonged absence ; — and 
still less was she prepared for the eager self-gratulation with 
which her haughty son would hail the arrival of the new 
travelling carriage which brought back in triumph to the 
Hall, the man whom, from the moment of his refusing fur- 
ther advances, Cressingham had sworn, in the presence of 
Lord Robert Leigh and Sir Henry Morton, should never 
enter the gates of his dwelling after the attainment of his 
majority ! 


CHAPTER X. 

“ The vanities that play their part, 

Unchecked in every worldly heart, 

In the child’s breast the spark began, 

Grows with his growth, and glares in man.” 

Cottox. 

A c aits i st might have found means to justify the incon- 
sistency of young Cressingham, on the grounds that the 
grave gentleman who now accosted him, presented scarcely 
a grain of affinity with the smirking attorney on whom he 
had been in the habit of venting his boyish insolence. It 
would have been utterly impossible for Reginald to take lib- 
erties with him now j an air of cold defiance on the part of 
the abdicated potentate, kept his ungrateful ward thorough- 
ly at bay. 

Mrs. Blair, indeed, in whose presence the interview took 
place, could not recover her surprise at the altered demean- 


106 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


or of the attorney sufficiently to explain the motives of her 
summons, or the embarrassments of her son ; and even when 
she flattered herself of having made all clear, so cold and 
brief was his reply, that she felt under the necessity of re- 
commencing her explanations. Still, Athanasius knit his 
brows and said nothing. At length, piqued by his imprac- 
tibility, Reginald took justice into his own hands, and in an 
off-hand way attempted to place matters in an intelligible 
light. Rut even he found himself embarrassed by the stead- 
fast self-possession of the man he had offended. 

“ 1 fear it will be out of my power to be of use in this 
emergency. I have, as l had the honor of informing you 
by letter a month ago, determined to renounce all profes- 
sional business,” was at length his answer. “At my time 
of life, and a single man, 1 have no object in increasing the 
competence for which 1 have worked so long. 1 should 
otherwise have been happy to lend my aid in freeing you 
from entanglements which I had hoped your confidence in 
we, and my indulgence as a guardian, must have rendered 
impossible.” 

Reginald was provoked to find himself looking extremely 
foolish at this rebuke ; more especially as he had a thou- 
sand times promised himself to avail himself of the first op- 
portunity to upbraid his unprincipled guardian with the very 
indulgence which had laid the foundations of his improvi- 
dence. But the pompous serenity of Athanasius imposed 
upon hi irk 

“ As a friend, however, — as an old and valued friend of 
the family, — let me entreat your advice and assistance for 
Reginald,” interposed Mrs. Blair, not hesitating to sacrifice 
her sense of dignity to the hope of conciliating one whose 
services were valuable to her son. 

Mr. Docket bowed; not gratefully, however, — scarcely 
even deferentially ; but as if to acknowledge a tribute law- 
fully due. Want of head in the mother, and want of heart 
in the son, relieved him from sentiments of respect or regard 
such as might have proved an obstacle to the cold-blooded 
line of conduct he had traced out for himself. He was es- 
sential to them, and consequently their master ; and it might 
be permitted even to a belter man to triumph in the con- 








THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


107 


sciousness o( superiority over those who had beset him with 
undeserved humiliations. 

Even when he consented to overlook, as a friend, the ac- 
counts which presented such a Daedalian mystery to the 
spendthrift, and to suggest such arrangements as might sat- 
isfy the more pressing of his claimants, it was with unaba- 
ted dignity and coldness. 

In a fit ot folly, arising from irritation of mind at finding 
himsell unable to carry all before him by a stroke of the 
pen, as during his minority, Reginald had quarrelled with 
his family banker; and the first step proposed by Docket 
was to visit London, and adjust this untoward difference 
with the respectable firm, who had resented the hauteur and 
ignorance of business of their boy-client. 

In the course of a day or two, accordingly, he was able 
to forward to Reginald a credit sufficient to meet all im- 
mediate demands; and while he still declined suggesting the 
name of a solicitor to undertake the management of the 
Cressingham property, on the grounds that among Regi- 
nald’s numerous friends he could be in no want of advisers, 
he pressed him to make an immediate choice, such as might 
enable him to surrender the papers in his custody into au- 
thorized hands previous to his retirement into Wales ; where, 
in the vicinity of his birth-place, he had purchased a small 
estate. 

All this was a cruel mortification to Reginald. He had 
never surmised that Docket’s services would prove beyond 
his reach. He had fancied that the attorney was coquetting 
with him, as he had coquetted with the attorney. That one 
whom he had recently regarded as little better than a me- 
nial should have achieved independence, while he, the rich 
Cressingham, was in embarrassed circumstances, appeared a 
mockery of their relative position ! — 

In the desperation of his perplexity, he now flung aside 
even the lion’s skin of self-love, and hastened to offer to his 
ex-guardian terms of preposterous amount, to engage him 
again in his service. In vain ! — The plans of Athanasius 
were grounded on other calculations. The position to which 
he aspired in the world was incompatible with any perma- 
nent connexion with a man so unstable ; and though the 
rich Cressingham scouted the idea of a man like Athanasius 


IOS 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Docket asserting political opinions of any kind, the new 
landed proprietor did not hesitate to cite, among the numer- 
ous discrepancies between them, the secession of his quon- 
dam ward from the wisdom of his ancestors, — the hereditary 
toryism of Stoke Paddocks. 

Again therefore, and in phrase still more dignified than 
before, did he reiterate his refusal. But this time, his letter 
contained the disagreeable intelligence that certain reversion- 
ary clauses in the will of the late Sir Giles, bequeathing his 
estates to public charities in the event of the death without 
issue of his youthful heir, would render it peculiarly diffi- 
cult to raise money on the property ; and that in considera- 
tion of the embarrassments already existing, which for years 
to come must operate a severe diminution of his income, he 
suggested to Reginald the propriety of reducing his London 
establishment, selling off his yacht, giving up his villa, and 
devoting himself exclusively to a country life. 

“Unless I am misinformed,” wrote Athanasius, “ you 
have found your career in the fashionable world less satisfac- 
tory than you expected. Presuming, therefore, upon the 
privileges of my age, I would suggest that an early mar- 
riage, by securing the reversion of your property to offspring 
of your own, and settling you at once in the tranquil enjoy- 
ment of home, might more permanently secure your honour 
and happiness than persistence in excesses which, 1 regret to 
find, have made your name somewhat notorious, and effected 
a serious injury to your property and prospects.” 

“Impertinent old puppy!” — was the first outburst of 
Cressingham’s indignation, on receiving this lecture at the 
hands of the man whom his own weaknesses had elevated so 
strangely above his head. 

“Marry and settle in the country forsooth — ay ! probably 
as he is about to do on his Welsh farm ! — marry, and be- 
come an example to the neighbourhood — edified by the ser- 
mons of his friend Chaffles, and fortified by the draughts of 
his friend Drench ! — Bury myself at Stoke, in the hope that 
the birth of a son may render me master of my estate ! I 
am much obliged to him !” 

Released from pecuniary restriction, already were reviv- 
ing in his heart those impulses of selfishness and mistrust, 
which had their origin in the predominant influence of his 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


109 


fate — the influence of Mammon ; and never bad he been so 
impatient of the advice of Docket, as now that it was wise 
and reasonable. He almost lent an ear to the sua^estion of 

_r_ m O CD 

Lord Robert Leig li, who happened to be breakfasting in 
Hamilton Place when the letter arrived, that he should 
either horsewhip or call out the man who troubled him with 
advice instead of assistance. 

“ For heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” cried he, “ don’t 
submit to be preached down in this sort of way. If you 
want a lawyer, I have a capital fellow to recommend to you, 
who has settled no end of awkward affairs for me, and lias 
money at command instead of sermons. Come with me to 
Gray’s Inn, and you will find a man of the world, instead of 
a sneaking fellow who, after fleecing you to the skin, is the 
first to turn round upon you. My friend Snapper will take 
all manner of trouble off your hands ; and it would not 
much surprise me if he should discover that this impertinent 
guardian of yours has been feathering his nest famously at 
your expense.” 

In the heat of his resentment against Athanasius, ac- 
cordingly, Reginald hurried with Lord Robert to the capital 
man of capital wdio was to steer him into smooth w ? ater from 
the midst of billows and breakers, and whose smiling alacrity 
certainly presented a most agreeable contrast to the resent- 
ful impracticability. of Docket. The acquisition of such a 
client as the rich Cressingham, was the gaining of a prize in 
the lottery to a bill-discounting law'yer ; and it seemed im- 
possible to welcome him in terms too accommodating, or on 
knees too bended. Messrs Snapper and Co., in short, 
undertook everything, made large advances, and promised 
more ; and w'ithin a w 7 eek after his introduction to them, 
Reginald w 7 as with Bob Leigh at New’market, losing more 
money and signing more bills than even his own improvi- 
dence could contemplate without anxiety. 

Youno- Cressingham was now fairly launched in a career 
which, though it might have witnessed so many wrecks, 
presents illusions capable of deceiving every new adventurer 
into a belief that there can be no danger from rocks and 
shoals known to all navigators, and marked for avoidance 
in every chart. With the vagueness of perception common 
to persons on whom exactitude has never been inculcated as 


110 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


a duty, he kept assuring himself that a man of his fortune 
could afford to exceed ; that he might at times experience a 
want of ready cash ; but that, being still the rich Cressing- 
ham, it was unnecessary to perplex himself by entering into 
the petty details of his affairs, which with skilful manage- 
ment must speedily come round. He was not yet reduced 
to the cruel duty of self-denial. 

He accordingly persisted in his habits of lavish expense, 
and kept a fair face upon the matter. As regarded the 
world, the great ambition of his superficial nature was to 
avoid being thought a bore ; as regarded himself, to escape 
being bored. He fancied he must have neglected himself if 
he felt a moment out of his four-and-twenty hours hang 
heavy on his hands. The object of a fortune like his, was 
to provide such a succession of excitements as migh super- 
sede the necessity of thinking, feeling, or becoming cog- 
nizant of the commonplaces of life. The grand privilege of 
the rich Cressingham was to commit all the follies committed 
by others of his class, on a more extended scale. 

Though still smarting under his losses at Newmarket, ac- 
cordingly he allowed himself to be persuaded by Bob Leigh 
that there was no existence during the winter months else- 
where than at Mellon. He had got tired of hunting at 
Oxford, — but it was because it was hunting at Oxford. 
Melton was a very different thing ; and with the aid of the 
ever ready “capital fellow in Gray’s Inn,” he was soon 
proprietor of one of the costliest hunting stables that ever 
astonished the annals of Leicestershire. All men of his 
fortune hunted ; and just as, at Oxford, he had been namby- 
pambyed into affecting polite literature, he was now spurred 
on to affect sportsmanship, by those who perceived his 
sensitive anxiety not to fall below the level of a fashionable 
man of fortune. 

With the exception, however, of Mrs. Blair, who, in this 
new mania of her son found a source of cruel disquietude for 
her sick room, no one passed a more disagreeable winter 
than the rich Cressingham. He was an indifferent rider; 
and his prodigal habits having supplied him with horses of 
the highest spirit, and in an abundance which not even the 
abundance of his hangers on could keep in proper exercise, 
be was constantly exposing himself in the field ; and Gerald 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


Ill 


Langley having taken care to inform him that Bob Leigh 
had been heard to declare him the worst seat in Leicester- 
shire, while Morton was known to have whispered that he 
rode like a tailor, Reginald thought proper to vindicate him- 
self by attempting'exploits, the evil issue of one of which 
laid him on his back for the last two months of the hunting 
season. 

The friends who kindly consented to make use of his 
horses during his illness instead of comforting his sick room, 
were not, of course, slow to hint that the accident was no 
more than might have been expected ; that Cress was just 
as awkward on horseback, as when he was the laughing 
stock of Ch. Ch.; and the next number of the Sporting 
Magazine contained, in addition to a piquant account of the 
Melton disasters of the rich Cressingham, a most free and 
easy exhortation to him to put himself into training (if he 
intended to persist in hunting), under hands which might 
perhaps enable him to ride his own horses. 

Reginald was furious. Though scarcely able to crawl 
about, he began agitating himself in all directions to dis- 
cover the authors of these attacks, — sport to them , but death 
to him ; — and before he could be induced to cede to the 
assurances of Bob Leigh and Langley, to whom his accident 
had proved so providential, that to fight against this sort of 
bantering wonld be to confirm his unpopularity for life, the 
sporting world found out that the rich Cressingham was a 
touchy blockhead, who would neither give nor take, and 
must be badgered into better humour. 

It was lucky, perhaps, for Cressingham that his long con- 
finement to his sofa, at the behest of surgeons summoned 
from town at an immense cost to declare that he would be 
safer under the care of the medical attendants of the place, 
afforded to him the same welcome relief from the necessity 
of hunting six davs in the week, which a hard frost affords 
to half the fashionable Meltonians ; for. had he ridden again, 
he would probably have seen fit to vindicate himself from 
the imputation of bad riding, at the risk of his life. 

His days, meanwhile, passed heavily enough. His mind 
was out of tune for even the slight literary recreations in 
which he had taken refuge from himself after his illness at 
Oxford ; and, though he had dispatched an interdiction to 


112 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


bis mother against coming to nurse him, in terms which an 
ancient Roman might have thought severe, lest a maternal 
visit should expose him to the ridicule of his sporting friends 
before the sixth week of his confinement was at an end, it 
occurred to him more than once to sigh for home, and to 
wish that his affectionate friends were not quite so keen in 
the field all the morning, or quite so noisy over their claret 
at night. He knew, however, that he should be equally 
neglected elsewhere. Bob Leigh, Morton, Holmeswell, 
Langley, all his London associates, were at Melton. There 
was nothing to be gained by a removal to Hamilton Place. 

The position of his affairs was not calculated to brighten 
his hours of sickness. So far from being able to detect a 
flaw in the accounts surrendered by Docket, Snapper and 
Co. were forced to admit, nay, almost to admire, their pro- 
fessional regularity ; nor was it compatible with their own 
position relative to their young client to indulge in diatribes 
upon the culpability of the guardian, who had not forcibly 
restrained the premature extravagance of his ward. 

Ashamed, perhaps, of falling so far short of their under- 
takings in this particular, they made new show of zeal by 
suggesting, after due examination of the preposterous claims 
against him, resistance against the keeper of a Brighton 
hotel, where the rich Cressingham had thought it good for 
his health to retain apartments twelve months in the year, 
which he visited occasionally for a week ; and, though the 
nature of the charges in the disputed bill was such as to 
excite roars of laughter in court, the skilful cross-examina- 
tion of the plaintiff’s attorney brought to light such gross acts 
of folly and extravagance on the part of the young gentle- 
man, who now refused to pay eleven guineas for a dish of 
pine-apple fritters, that all the world agreed it would have 
been worth Reginald’s while to throw away thrice the 
amount of the sum claimed, rather than incur for life the 
stigma of such an exposure. 

No sooner had the press laid hold of the affair, as a fertile 
source of profitable abuse and witty inuendoes, than the 
friends previously eager in their advice to him “ not to be 
done by a rascally innkeeper,” whisper in all directions, that 
“ It was a pity a man of Cress’s fortune had not thrown the 
money into the fellow’s face, and said nothing more about 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


IV 

the matter, and a sad mistake to have allowed himself to be 
so shown up: — the name of ‘ Pine-apple fritters Cressing- 
ham’ being likely to stick to him for life 1” 

Unluckily, it stuck to him in a time and place where his 
credit as a reasonable being was more than usually impor- 
tant. During his confinement at Melton, one of the many 
sources of bitterness by which he had striven to make the 
solitude to which he was assigned by fashionable friendship 
as irksome as possible, was the newspaper reputation of the 
“ clever Cressingham.” A great political crisis was at 
hand ; and Reginald seemed to interest himself in parliamen- 
tary debates, chiefly for the purpose of studying, period by 
period, cheer by cheer, the reports of his speeches, as if bent 
upon discovering the secret of his cousin’s eloquence. It 
seemed hard, indeed, that a man educated in obscurity, who 
had passed through college without notice, should have thus 
suddenly blossomed into fame. 

Recalling to mind the praise lavished upon his own ef- 
forts at the spouting club by Percy and other worshippers 
of his literary aurora borealis, he felt satisfied that opportu- 
nity alone was wanting to place the name of another Cres- 
singham in the muster roll of fame. Withdrawn for a time 
from the noisy orgies of his dissolute companions, he began 
to perceive that he had been unconsciously, if not reluctant- 
ly, drawn into the vortex ; and flattered himself that be- 
because the contemptible sphere in which he had sought 
a level afforded him no real enjoyment, he possessed apti- 
tude for higher things ; and determined to buy his way into 
parliament, where nature would do the rest. 

Not even the repeated disappointments and personal 
thwartings which might have been expected to modify 
his confidence in the royal road to learning, or golden road 
to success, — could inspire Reginald with wisdom. He still 
imagined that gold would buy golden opinions ; and that 
the rich Cressingham need only avow the pretensions of being 
called the clever Cressingham to achieve a great reputation. 

It was his own fault if he had failed in minor pretensions. 
He might have been blackballed at White’s by the malice 
of envious younger brothers ; rejected by the patronesses of 
Almack’s, whose daughters he had not chosen to invite to 
dance ; quizzed at the moors as a bad shot, and at Melton 

VOL. I 1 I 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


114 

• 

as a bad seat, or vilified by the Sunday papers as a stingy 
fellow after the expenditure of two hundred thousand pounds ; 
but it was ouly because, to actiieve such trifles, he had not 
chosen to apply the full force of his faculties. And if, 
after compassing his entrance into the House, he thought* 
proper to get up the steam and attain parliamentary distinc- 
tion, he entertained little doubt that the new clever Cres- 
singham would very shortly eclipse the old. 

These ambitions, and the irritability arising from their 
neglect of his sick room during the hunting season, produced 
inevitable estrangement between Reginald and his noisy 
associates. Unaccustomed to self-restraint, he allowed his 
disgust to become sufficiently apparent. The state of his 
health forbad all possibility of a renewal in Hamilton Place 
of the intemperate orgies of his hunting box; and no sooner 
bad he declared his intention of dispensing with an opera 
box, — giving up his team, — disposing of his villa, and re- 
nouncing divers other expensive superfluities of dandy life, 
than Bob Leigh began to whisper at Crockford’s, that, after 
all, he was afraid he had been mistaken in Cress ; — that 
Cress was not the right good fellow he had fancied ; that 
Cress had a knack of always thinking himself imposed 
upon ; — that Cress would never make, or, at all events, 
never keep a friend ; and all this because Cress was of opin- 
ion that he had been “ keeping” his friends long enough, and 
that it was time he should think of himself — nay, even think 
for others ! 

For, lo ! the general election so long anticipated was at 
hand ; and placards of “ Cressingham, the Friend of 
the People,” already clothed all the blank walls within 
forty miles of Stoke Paddocks ! 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


1 15 


CHAPTER XI. 

In politics pray let’s be staunch, 

Arm’d cap-a-pie against the French, — 

Abstain from plots, and only drive at 
The public welfare or our private. 

For England’s sacred glory try 
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy, 

And keep our places tilFwe die. 

Prior. 

“ I am sure I don’t know any one who has a better right 
to represent the county than a young man of my son’s 
property,” was Mrs. Blair’s rejoinder to the lamentations of 
Mrs. Chaffles, by whom the first intimation of his intentions 
was brought to The Wilderness. 

“But, my dear ma’am — such a county as this!” persist- 
ed the Vicar’s lady. “ So very young a man to attempt a 
contest with our old and venerated members ! In the 
teeth, too, of the long established Conservative principles of 
the Cressingham family.” 

“ My son has no such close relationship to his predecessors 
as to bind him to their political principles in opposition to his 
conscience,” — retorted Mrs. Blair. 

u His conscience !” murmured Justina, who had accom- 
panied her grandmother. 

“ And as to Conservatism, the very name is scarcely ten 
years old,” added Mrs. Blair, resenting anything that sound- 
ed like an imputation upon her son. 

“Oh! certainly, ma’am — certainly. Far be it from me 
to find any fault with Mr. Cressingham for asserting his 
independence. Only, between ourselves, the Doctor is 
greatly distressed at foreseeing the vast sum of money about 
to be expended by his young patron, — and the defeat certain 
to ensue.” 

“But why certain to ensue?” — demanded Mrs. Blair, in 
a nervous tone. 

“Because Mr. Cressingham has put forward addresses at 
variance with the interests of the county and with his 
own. Was not that what Mr. Drench was saying at our 


116 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


house this morning, grandmamma ?” observed the young 
girl. 

“Don’t talk' about what you don’t understand, Tina,” 
said the old lady ; while Mrs. Blair murmured, in a tremu- 
lous voice — “ Why, certainly, if Mr. Drench is of opinion 
that Reginald has acted rashly, I fear it is all over with him. 
I dare say Drench was afraid of hazarding his real opinion 
to me. He certainly seemed to insinuate yesterday that it 
was impossible to guess the result of the poll.” 

“ You see, rny dear ma’ma,” rejoined Mrs. Chaffles, 
cheered by the growing despondency of the invalid, 
“ both Mr. Drench and the Doctor are placed in a most 
painful and embarrassing situation by Mr. Cressingham’s 
manifestation of opinion. Mr. Cressingham has certainly a 
right to count to the utmost upon their support in his can- 
vass. But just consider what a figure they will cut! — All 
the folks, gentle or simple, in these parts, are out and out 
To ries. Sir Giles Cressingham, ma’am, was a stiff Tory, 
— Mr. Docket, ma’am, was a stiff Tory ; and the poor 
dear Doctor has been preaching and praying for the good 
cause for the last eight-and-thirty years. At all the ten- 
ants’ dinners, at every meeting at Stoke, — in private and in 
public, ma’am, — assizes, bible-meetings, races, and what 
not, — wherever there was a speech to be made, it was made 
in favor of Church and State. And now to have to go and 
swallow these words will, at the Doctor’s age more particu- 
larly, be exceedingly disagreeable.” 

“ But why is grandpapa to swallow his words ?” demanded 
Justina. “Mr. Cressingham’s addresses talk of nothing but 
civil and religious liberty all over the globe. He cannot 
want grandpapa to make a slave of himself because he hap- 
pens to be patron of the living of which he is the incum- 
bent.” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense !” interrupted her grandmother. 

“ You don’t suppose that the Doctor intends to run counter 
to the interests of the family to which he has been attached 
for eight-and-thirty years?— No, my dear !— Your grandpa- 
pa is a man of higher principles ! Only he feels his situa- 
tion to be a delicate one ; and is, of course, impatient that 
Mr. Cressingham should make his appearance to give him 
instructions about putting out the addresses, The London 




# 


THE MAN OP FORTUNE. 


1 17 


solicitors did not even pay the Doctor the compliment of 
consulting him about the N deputation that was got up to so- 
licit Mr. Cressingham to stand.” — 

But though the old Vicar, now nearly in his dotage, was 
willing to accept proprietorship of Stoke Paddocks as suffi- 
cient evidence of fitness to be the county representative, 
less enlightened men were less persuadable. — It may be an 
advantage in a ballot at a fashionable club for the aspirant 
to be little known, so as to excite neither envy or malice ; 
but, in the case of a county member, it was held essential 
by its leading gentlemen that something more should be 
apparent in their future representative than the extent of his 
estates. A certain number of men of liberal opinions, in- 
deed, impatient of the subjection in which the county had 
long been held, voted for Reginald rather as a notification of 
their own opposition than with any desire for his success ; 
and, in the sequel, all that money could effect was attempt- 
ed in vain, in order to bring him within even respectable dis- 
tance of the men he was desirous of unseating. 

Even among the people, a saucy cry arose of “ Who is 
Cressingham of Stoke Paddocks ?” They all knew Stoke 
Paddocks — they none of them knew Cressingham ; nay, 
they none of them wanted to know him. He was a man 
who drew his income from the county, and spent it in 
London. He was a man whose name was unconnected w ith 
county charities or county improvements. He had done 
nothing for them — he probably would do nothing. He was 
not even born among them. He w'as not a true Cressing- 
ham. He w'as a changeling, — an alien, — a nobody. 

As the polling proceeded, and the money scattered by 
Messrs Snapper and Co. as lavishly as if it had not cost 
fifteen per cent, in the raising, excited momentary uneasi- 
ness in his opponents, other civilities besides rotten eggs 
and dead cats were flung in the face of the indignant Regi- 
nald. 

“ Who ate the pine-apple fritters and then refused to pay 
for them ? — Cressingham the fubble !” was paraded on 
sundry placards before his flashing eyes. 

“ Who pays his French cook the maintenance of sixteen 
poor families ?” — was another of the queries addressed to 
him ; and by degrees a thousand anecdotes of his dissolute 

VOL. I. 11* * 


118 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


and prodigal career evoked the hooting and execrations o', 
the fickle throng. 

But this was not the worst. Though deeply mortified at 
finding himself indifferently supported by the county 
gentlemen of liberal opinions, — though enraged at being 
called to account for his pleasures and pursuits, the thing 
that touched him most was the absence of a considerable 
number of his more respectable tenants from the mounted 
procession got up in his honour. They chose to be stead- 
fast in their opinions. They had no clever cousin in the 
House, on the Tory interest, to pique them into opposition. 
The honourable member for Wilsbury was nothing to them ; 
and to the utter mortification of-the poor old Vicar, a con- 
siderable number declined giving their votes to their land- 
lord. A few, from motives of respect, abstained from voting 
at all ; but it was observed that all those who had subscrib- 
ed for the piece of plate for Athanasius Docket, which had 
given such offence to his ward, presumed to record their 
votes against “ Cressingham the friend of the people,” 
albeit proprietor of Stoke Paddocks. 

It was a stormy contest. The supporters retained by the 
emissaries of Messrs. Snapper and Co., were lar short of the 
most respectable condition ; and an affray that signalized 
the course of the second day’s poll ended in a loss of life, 
which added new blackness to the evil renown of the junior 
candidate. 

The young gentleman “ who ate the pine-apple fritters 
and then refused to pay for them,” was made accountable 
for all ; nay, even the liberal party affected to consider that 
young Cressingham had injured their cause by making his 
unpopularity and incompetency pass for the weakness of 
their party. Deeply mortified by the revival of the pine- 
apple fritters affair, he had made an indifferent speech, and 
was felt to have broken down on the hustings ; and when, 
at the close of the contest, he became aware that he had 
expended six thousand pounds for the simple pleasure of 
being pelted, vilified, and pronounced incompetent by all 
sides of the question, he had, indeed, some cause to wish 
that his first flight in public life had been of a less aspiring 
nature. 

Respectability was the word which had been most ad- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


119 


vantageously arrayed against him. The respectability of 
the old members, the respectability of the conservative 
cause, the respectability of his predecessor at Stoke Pad- 
docks, the respectability even of the Tory guardian who had 
retired irf disgust from the # management of his affairs, were 
cited in black, white, and grey, in contra distinction to all 
that he had ever done at Oxford, Melton, London, or left 
undone at Stoke Paddocks. And all this in presence of the 
Duke of Granton and Lord Ashleigh, who had proposed one 
of the sitting members ; to say nothing of the Marquis of 
Reaconsfield, who was nephew to the other; — “Earl Percy 
saw his fall.” 

In town, the news of his defeat excited no surprise. The 
Reform Club had not judged its support necessary to the 
rich Cressingham, who pretended to stand forth as champion 
of their cause; and at Crockford’s and elsewhere, where 
politics excite about the same interest as any other game at 
hazard, scarcely a man had been found to back “ poor 
Cress” with a bet. Lis young contemporaries had long de- 
cided that in all his undertakings “Cress would put his foot 
into it.” 

One of the unkindest cuts of all hazarded against him on 
the hustings was, that in spite of the extent of his rent-roll, 
the rich Cressingham was in difficulties such as rendered a 
seat in parliament peculiarly desirable ; nor w ? as his resent- 
ment of the imputation diminished when he had grounds to 
surmise that intelligence of the derangement of his affairs 
had been circulated by the personal friends of his ex-guardian. 
That Docket should consider it worth while to cabal for the 
political interests of a county from which he had retired 
forever, and with such flying colours, appeared, indeed, 
scarcely probable; and though Messrs Snapper and Co., by 
whom the chain of evidence was traced link by link, pro- 
tested that the assistance afforded by the extensive personal 
influence of Athanasius to the conservative cause, was a mere 
repayment of the sterling aid of the Carltonians, which had 
caused him, — him, the attorney, — him , the rebuffed of the 
rich Cressingham — to be returned by the worthy and inde- 
pendent electors of Llanstephen, the borough immediately 
adjoining the seat in Wales which he had modestly termed a 
farm, Reginald could scarcely believe in so deeply laid a 
scheme of political intrigue. 


120 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


The result, at least, was indisputable. Athanasius Dock- 
et was returned to Parliament, and Reginald signally de- 
feated. Athanasius was now his superior. Athanasius was 
in a position to achieve the laurels by which he had hoped 
to out-triumph the honourable member for Wiisbury ! 

Under this new mortification, to whom was he to turn for 
sympathy ? Messrs Snapper and Co., who had earnestly 
dissuaded him from a contest, to provide the funds for which 
they had been forced to ruinous extremities, now shook their 
heads despairingly, if not rebukingly ; while poor old 
Chaffles found himself too bitterly upbraided with his 
apostasy by his clerical brethren and Tory neighbours, to 
find the election a pleasant topic for discussion. Nay, he 
almost dreaded the idea of entering his pulpit, lest perad- 
venture the grim visage of his patron, Sir Giles, should thrust 
itself forth from the family vault, to revile him for desertion 
of the sacred banner. 

Reginald was consequently alone in his sullenness. On 
proceeding from Stoke Paddocks to the election, so sanguine 
were his expectations of triumph, so earnest his reliance on 
the potency of the golden charm, upon which, from his 
youth upwards, he had been taught to rely, that he had all 
but bespoken festivities to signalise his return to Parlia- 
ment ; and it struck him, as his travelling carriage re-enter- 
ed the park, that he discerned traces of the recent removal 
of a wooden framework purporting to form the foundation of 
a triumphal arch ; and though the head gardener protested 
that certain stupendous faggots of laurels which he found 
tied up in the shrubberies, had been prepared to grace the 
carriages conveying voters to the poll, Reginald had only 
too shrewd a guess at their real destination. 

It was summer time. A glorious sunset was briaditenins: 
the scene, over which the disappointed man cast his eyes in 
disgust. While waiting for the dinner bell, instead of pro- 
ceeding to The Wilderness to visit his mother, according to 
his wont when he had nothing else to do, by some inexplica- 
ble force of sympathy he betook himself to the shade of the 
beech-tree under which it was the custom aforetime of Sir 
Giles Cressingham to sit and muse, when equally out of 
sorts with the world ; and, as if influenced by some local 
spell, his moody thoughts gradually concentrated themselves 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


121 


into a most Cressinghamian thirst for revenge. Baffled in 
his dearest ambition, his ears still tinidin£, and his heart still 
smarting, under the buffets and insults he had endured, the 
man of fortune was not long in finding objects whereon to 
exhaust his vengeance. The following day, notices of eject- 
ment were served bv his steward upon the refractory tenants 
who h§d withheld their support from their landlord ; and 
the following week, the County Chronicle, -supported by 
the money and influence of the Duke of Granton and the 
Earl of Ashleigh, contained a bitter article upon the tyranny 
of the self-styled Liberal candidate, which the Conservative 
press judged worthy of being transferred to the London 
papers. 

A contest in which the interests of the people had scarcely 
the shadow of a share, — a contest originating, on one side, 
in love of notoriety, and, on the other, in love of place, — 
was now made the groundwork of a series of splendid bursts 
of newspaper eloquence; in the course of which the word 
Freedom, repeated nine hundred and ninety -nine times, 
produced the necessity for increasing the printer’s supply of 
upper-case F’s, and the burning in effigy of the rich Cres- 
singham, or, as he w'as now termed, the tyrant of Stoke 
Paddocks, in his county town, and divers villages arid ham- 
lets attached to the Granton interest, and consequently 
peculiarly conservative ; — which, had they presumed to vote 
against the Duke of Granton’s member, would have under- 
gone precisely the same sentence as the recalcitrants of 
Stoke. 

Meanwhile, finding himself braved and threatened on his 
own territories, Reginald renounced his intention of quitting 
home for a time, and stood his ground manfully at the Hall 
for the cultivation of his disgusts! There was no one whom, 
under circumstances so disagreeable, he could invite to bear 
him company; and, with the exception of unacceptable letters 
by the post, no change or incident enlivened his solitary 
days. It was a desolate season for a man who discerns no 
charm in the aspect of nature. There was no shooting, — 
no hunting, — and the rich man had neither simplicity nor 
philosophy to qualify him for a brother of the angle. The 
country was consequently detestable. The woods were 
j green, — the fields glorious, — the gardens bright with flow- 


122 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


ers. Harmonious sounds and sights abounded on every 
side ; — but there was a deficiency of all which, to persons 
wedded to the artificialities of society, constitutes the charm 
of country life. There was too much sunshine of a morn- 
ing, — to much daylight of an evening ; and Cressingham 
consequently found his beautiful place utterly insupportable. 
Nearly ten years had elapsed since, on coming into, posses- 
sion, the Hall was placed in complete order ; and, compared 
with the luxuriousness of his over-furnished town mansion, it 
now seemed dingy and old-fashioned. He was weary ot 
everything around him. Unattached to the place by early 
associations, all became a blank when compelled to trust for 
enjoyment to its resources. 

Moreover, there is something that weighs like lead upon 
the spirits in the routine of a noble establishment, when the 
proprietors know that though its splendours proceed as if by 
mechanism, the master spring is every moment in hazard of 
breaking. The same number of servants in the household, 
the same quantity of plate on the table, — the same banquet, 
the same illumination ; — yet ruin silently and invisibly 
hovering over all ! 

The tyrant of Stoke Paddocks began to fancy that he 
discerned significant smiles upon the faces of his attendants; 
that they peered into the contents of his disagreeable letters, 
that they perused the newspapers which vilified his charac- 
ter ; that they were laughing in the servants’ hall and 
steward’s room over the caricatures of Pine Apple Fritters 
Cressingham and the strictures of the press. In vain did 
he betake himself to a dumb-waiter to get rid of their attend- 
ance. He could not ring the bell without feeling that they 
had the advantage over him; and was forced to confess 
that if no man can be a hero to his valet-de-chambre, there is 
no difficulty in being a coward. 

Mrs. B! air, when he sauntered occasionally into her close 
room to find fault with the atmosphere, and wonder at the 
patience of little Justina, who devoted a portion of every 
day to comfort and read to the invalid to whom she was in- 
debted for many a serious act of kindness, noticed with re- 
gret that his countenance was beginning to be worn with the 
premature cares of life. But she had not courage to attempt 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


123 


/ 

to obtain bis confidence. It was only her young companion 
who ventured openly to attack him. 

“ How wrong you are to come and make your mother 
anxious by your Jong face, Mr. Cressingharn !” said the 
fearless girl one day, when he overtook her in the park, on 
her way to visit The Wilderness. — “ In her lonely room 
Mrs. Blair has nothing to do, after you are gone, but sug- 
gest causes for your being so out of humor. She fancies 
you crossed in love ; — she fancies you ill — unhappy — a thou- 
sand things ; instead of simply perceiving that you are 
disappointed in not finding yourself so great a man as you 
expected.” 

“I thank you !” replied Reginald, in a bitter tone ; — “I 
sincerely thank you.” 

“ Yes. do thank me, — you are quite right to thank me, — 
for I am the only person who dare tell you a little whole- 
some truth. If other people had given you as much cause 
to thank them for plain speaking, you would not be moping 
alone here at Stoke, accomplishing no good purpose, boring 
every one as much as you are bored yourself . v 

“ So far from being bored, — ” Reginald was begin- 
ning,— 

“ Do not deny it !” interrupted his little friend. “You 
do not derive one particle of pleasure from the place which 
strangers cannot pass on the road without admiration. 
When we were children here, you were as fond of it as I 
was. As its master, you see in the estate only a place 
where timber may be cut down to defray your London ex- 
penses. What has become of Annesley hanger, where I 
used to find the first violets every spring ? — Gone ! — What 
has become of the woodlands which used to clothe yonder 
naked hill, above Upham ? Upon my word 1 do not won- 
der at your disliking a spot so fraught with disagreeable re- 
proaches !” 

“ I dislike a place where there is no society, — no neigh- 
borhood,” said Reginald, nettled bv her presumption. 
“Who is there at Stoke, pray, with whom a gentleman can 
associate ?” 

“With your fortune, you should secure gentlemanly asso- 
ciates in you own house. Where are your friends ? — Where 
are even your companions ? — such companions as they were 


124 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


— when you did think proper to fill the old Hall with 
company l” 

“ What temptation could I offer to people of the world 
to come and stay with me ? Not a creature within ten 
miles round whom I could invite to'meet them !” 

“ There is the Duke of Grauton’s family at Haxington, 
and Lord Beaconsfield only a few miles further, who will 
fill their houses from a much greater distance,” replied Jus- 
tina, coolly. “ As to the immediate neighborhood, if it 
boast of no very fine people to do you honor, you have done 
nothing to improve its sociability ; for our little circle — a 
circle that satisfied us — is broken up by the discords of the 
late contest, which has done nothing but spend your money, 
make you ridiculous, and my poor old grandfather — but of 
that l must not allow myself to speak.” 

“ You seem to allow yourself to speak of most things with 
very little ceremony, Justina,” said Reginald, less angrily 
than might have been expected. 

“ To you , — because you will never be more to me than 
when we were playmates. Had you grown up into the 
great man we all expected, perhaps I might have learnt to 
forget l had known you as a good-natured boy. As it is, I 
sincerely pity you, Mr. Cressingham ; for I look upon a 
man like you, blest with the power of doing so much good 
in the world and doing none, even to yourself, to be as great 
a criminal as many who are on the treadmill.” 

This boldness on the part of one whom he had dearly 
loved as a child, but whom his worldly eye now regarded 
only as the humble companion of his mother, — whose busi- 
ness it was to wind worsted, ring for coals, and hold her 
tongue, — effected nothing for Reginald but to keep him 
away from The Wilderness. Conscious of the truth of Jus- 
tina’s accusation that he never made the smallest sacrifice to 
his mother’s happiness or comfort, he amended the matter by 
absenting himself altogether. 

The truant gained nothing in peace of mind, however, by 
his removal to town. Though the expedience of his men of 
expedients had arranged such terms with his creditors as reliev- 
ed him from immediate anxiety, his mind was not quite so se- 
cure as his person. The evil day of general settlement, though 
deferred, could not be deferred for ever; and between the im- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


125 


pertinent taunt of little Justina, “ ifyou want companionship 
at Stoke, why not look out for a wife ?” and the grave hint of 
Snapper, “ifyou want fifty thousand pounds, why not look out 
for an heiress ?” — he felt at times almost disposed to ex- 
change the noble jointure conveyed by the Stoke Paddocks 
title-deeds, for a hundred thousand pounds, or so, in the way 
of dowry. 

Heiresses are seldom wanting in money making London, 
more particularly in those secondary circles with which he 
had been scoffed by Gerald Langley for making himself 
familiar ; and he remembered having presented his friend, 
Lord Robert, with malice prepense, to the only daughter of 
a rich brewer, who was said to be eager to connect his over- 
growrn inheritance with the empty title of ladyship. She 
was an ugly girl, if he recollected rightly — but what then ? 
— In the choice of an heiress, people must not be too fas- 
tidious. Provided the gilding be thick enough, it will cover 
any amount of defect or infirmity, personal or ancestral. 
The young lady in question, however, was what is called 
“not so very ill-looking for an heiress.” There was noth- 
ing absolutely loathsome in her features — nothing positively 
repellent in her figure; and Reginald, more at his ease in 
the circles of Portland Place than in that of the Dutchess 
of Penzance, did not find the courtship to which shortly 
afterwards he addressed himself, half so irksome as Lord 
Robert Leigh, who, seeming to plead privilege of peerage 
to “come, see, and conquer,” had incurred as rapid a de- 
feat. 

Had the fashionable season been in progress, Reginald 
might, perhaps, have experienced more reluctance. But 
the great world was in its country houses ; the roue world 
in its hunting boxes ; and London given up to the sobriety 
of family coaches and parties to the play. Not a coronet 
was astir to distract the vain mind of the spendthrift from 
its purpose ; and day after day did he submit with decreas- 
ing disgust to the operation of morning visits to the work-table 
of Miss Florence Worts. 

That a young man like the rich Cressingham, handsome 
j in his person, choice in his dress, familiar with the light 
literature of the day, and pleasant enough in his manners 
when he felt at ease, should prove a welcome visitor, was 
VOL. I. — 12 


126 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


only natural. Of the numerous pretendants, past and pres- 
ent, to the hand of the heiress, Reginald was certainly the 
most distinguished ; nor was he slow to remark that his arri- 
val was always greeted with a smile, and that significant 
looks were exchanged as he entered the room between the 
fair Florence and a certain JMiss Pettigrew, ex-governess 
and toady regnant, who officiated as her chaperon. The 
influence of the favor he thus enjoyed was remarkable ; and 
the guest, so awkward and silent at Maunderwell House, 
became graceful and eloquent in Portland Place. 

He could not help feeling, however, that Florence was 
somewhat relentless in her inflictions of vulgar uncles and 
cousins upon his acquaintance. He had found himself 
compelled to acknowledge, within hail of Crockford’s win- 
dows, the bow of a Mr. Bartholomew Worts, a wholesale 
druggist in Lotbbury; and to endure the hand-kissing of a blue 
coachful of Misses Worts, of Bedford Square, who, on more 
than one occasion, fairly drove him out of the Park. 

But such sacrifices were not to be put in competition 
with a hundred thousand pounds in hand, and three hun- 
dred thousand in the bush. The free use of money had taught 
him the value of money ; and he accordingly redoubled in 
attentions, even while the Christmas dinner parties of the 
Worts family were monopolizing whole cartloads of turkeys 
and chines. He was not apprehensive, on this occasion, of 
premature disclosures in the Morning Post. Burrowed in 
the hyperborean circles of Portland Place, he defied even 
the most acute terriers of the fashionable world. 

Time drew on, and the well applied spur and thong of 
his knowing friend in Gray’s Inn, at length brought Regi- 
nald to the proposing post. By degrees, he had become 
personally desirous of the match. With very little tutoring, 
and the aid of the Cressingham diamonds, he fancied that 
Florence would preside with honor over his establishment in 
Hamilton Place. Clever and lively, her con versation amused 
him; and he began to fancy that the following winter at 
Stoke Paddocks would pass far more agreeably than the 
present one in Hamilton Place. 

For, with the exception of the moments devoted to court- 
ship, there was very little to reconcile him to the four hours 
of daylight in the twenty-four, of a London winter. The 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


127 


new parliament was assembled. The honorable member 
for Lanslephen was scudding about Whitehall in a cabriolet 
of unimpeachable propriety, looking grave, spruce, and as- 
siduous, as become a new member ; while the morning pa- 
pers once more enlightened their great letters with extracts 
from the luminous speeches of the honorable member for 
Wilsbury. 

“ I wish you would bring your cousin here some morning, 
Mr. Cressingham, ,, said Florence one day, when her fash- 
ionable suitor, with flushing cheek and flashing eye, w'as 
actually awaiting an opportunity for the proposal he had so 
long meditated. 

“I regret that you should have bit upon one of the 
only requests with which it is not in my powmr to com- 
ply,” observed Reginald, his countenance overclouded in a 
moment. 

“ And why not ?” persisted Florence ; and without 
waiting for an answer, she burst forth into a violent pane- 
gyric on the member for Wilsbury, to which the ex-govern- 
ess chaunted forth a second, strictly in tune. “ My father 
is a devoted admirer of your cousin’s talents and principles,” 
said she. “ My father swears by Mr. Cressingham, does he 
not, Miss Pettigrew' ? So does my uncle Bartholomew ; so 
do all our city connexions. Such eloquence, such decision, 
such consistency in all his speeches ! We always read them 
aloud, and sometimes more than once, — do we not, Miss 
Pettigrew ?” 

The ex-governess was smilingly confirmative. 

“ Papa considers him the leading man of the day, does he 
not, Miss Petigrew ? and my uncle Bartholomew has betted 
a hundred guineas with my uncle John, that if ever the To- 
ries come in, he will have a seat in the cabinet !” 

While Florence was making her usual appeal to Miss 
Pattigrew, Reginald imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. 

“ 1 trust, therefore, that you will not deny us so great a 
pleasure as your cousin’s acquaintance,” added his intended 
bride. “ I assure you he will be welcomed here on bended 
knees. Will he ” 

“Not upon my introduction, certainly,” hastily inter- 
rupted Reginald ; “ for I myself have not the honor of his 
acquaintance.” 


128 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


“Not acquainted with your own cousin?’’ exclaimed 
Miss Worts, — warm with all the humanities of kith and 
kinship with the families of uncle Bartholomew and uncle 
John; — “how very extraordinary! — Is it not, Miss Petti- 
grew ?” 

“ My mother was extremely ill-used by her brother, the 
father of Mr. Cressinghani of Manny Park,” replied Regi- 
nald, gravely ; “a coldness ensued ; nor have 1 any object 
in seeking a reconciliation.” 

“ How very provoking !” exclaimed Florence. “ Is it 
not, Miss Pettigrew ?” 

“ Very provoking my dear.” 

“To own the truth,” said she, again turning to Reginald, 
“ when I was introduced to you last year at the Caledonian 
Ball, we thought you were the clever Cressingham — did we 
not, Miss Pettigrew ? — and even after finding out my mis- 
take, I always flattered myself that, through you, we might 
still come to know him.” 

“ I am sorry you should have been disappointed,” observed 
Reginald drily, not a little piqued ; adding, in a tenderer 
voice — “ I, at least, have found in you all that 1 antici- 
pated in our first meeting ; that is,” he continued, perceiv- 
ing that Miss Pettigrew had betaken herself into the other 
room in search of Burke’s ‘Landed Gentry,’ to look out for 
Cressingham of Manny Park, “ all that can promise happi- 
ness in domestic life to the man whom you favor with your 
choice.” 

“ I am sure I hope my virtues may keep their word,” re- 
torted Florence, with a saucier laugh than Reginald thought 
altogether becoming so critical a moment. 

“May I be permitted to add ‘amen’ to your wish?” 
— demanded he, drawing a little closer towards the work- 
table. 

“Certainly, if you have any interest in the affair,” replied 
Florence, still smilling, but without casting down her eyes 
or blushing as he expected. 

“ Any interest?” reiterated Reginald, his breath coming 
short, and his countenance assuming a still more earnest ex- 
pression, when he saw, through the folding doors, that Miss 
Pettigrew was busy with vol. I, of Burke, unaware that let- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


129 


ter C is included in vol. II. 11 Any interest? — When the 
hopes dearest to my heart are ” 

“My dear Mr. Cressingham ! — recollect yourself! — 
What are you saying ?” cried Florence still perfectly self* 
possessed. 

“ I am saying what I trust my conduct for the last two 
months has fully prepared you to hear,’’ replied he, really 
breathless with emotion, “ that if the offer of my hand and 
heart ” 

“ You cannot be serious !” again ruthlessly interrupted the 
young lady. “ You cannot intend to propose to me ? — you 
surely are aware that 1 arn engaged.” 

“ Engaged !” cried Reginald, sinking into a chair. 

“ To my father’s partner, Mr. Jeremiah Jones, whom we 
are daily expecting home from his estates in Jamaica.” 

“ 1 have certainly heard you allude to the arrival of a 
Mr. Jones,” faltered Reginald ; “ but after all the en- 
couragement you had given me, how was I to conjec- 
ture ’’ 

“ Encouragement ?” repeated Florence, scarcely repres- 
sing a smile. “ Have I not admitted to you our ulterior ob- 
ject in making your acquaintance ?” 

u ln making it, perhaps. But when you saw my growing 
attachment — when you became aware that it was my inten- 
tion to offer you my hand ” • 

“ How was l to surmise anything of the kind ? I know 
that I arn plain, — that I have no attractions of family or 
person. Your friend, Lord Robert Leigh, proposed to me, 
I admit ; but, as he made no secret among his friends, only 
as a more agreeable alternative than the Bench. From 
you, however, — from the rich Mr. Cressingham, — from Mr. 
Pine-apple Fritters Cressingham, 1 thought 1 could not be 
exposed to a similar insult. You could not be blinded to 
the frightfulness of the ugly heiress by the derangement of 
your affairs. With you 1 thought myself safe; and conse- 
quenlly assumed the ease and frankness of a friend,” 

Involuntarily Reginald started at this allusion to the in-? 
terested nature of his views. 

“ I am quite aware of my position,” added Florence, 
more sternly ; — “ I am a brewer’s daug hter, — a sallow, ill- 
featured girl, from whose appearance, when announced 
vol. i — 12 # 


130 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


among strangers, people turn away with indifference or dis- 
like. The man 1 am to marry has been accustomed from 
childhood to all this ; and those who, not thus familiarized, 
affect blindness, can only be actuated by motives which ex- 
pose them to my utmost contempt. Is it not so, Miss Pet- 
tigrew ?” 

‘‘Certainly, my deaf!” responded the governess, who 
was now poring over vol. II in search of “ Cressingham of 
Manny Park,” right opposite to Cressingham of Stoke Pad- 
docks ; — who, perceiving that he had been played upon, to 
divert the winter dulness of a house in Portland Place, by a 
young lady capable of becoming a Mrs. Jeremiah Jones, 
and whose betrothed was visiting his plantations in Jamaica, 
made so hasty and angry an exit, as scarcely allowed time 
for Mrs. Pettigrew to curtesy him out, and ring the bell on 
his departure. 

Three days before, Reginald had instructed his capital 
friend in Gray’s Inn to prepare his rent-roll for being laid 
before his future father-in-law, the wealthy Worts of Li- 
quorpond Street and Portland Place. Three days afterwards, 
he wrote from Paris, to require such a credit on Rothschild 
as would enable him to make an extended tour on the f con- 
tinent. Snapper was far more taken by surprise by this 
proposal than Florence by hers. But it was too late to re- 
monstrate. His victim was for the present safe out of his 
clutches. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 

Leavening his blood, as cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so ’tis but in a hurry. 

Byron. 

Poor Reginald made but a single rush from London to 
Paris. On quitting Portland Place, he had ordered his su- 
perfine valet to prepare for a journey, and for remaining be^ 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


131 


hind ; and started at once in the steam-packet, without car- 
riage or attendants. 

All his object was to get away, — no matter how, no mat- 
ter whither. lie seemed to fancy it written in his face that 
the Rich Cressingham had wanted to sell himself to an 
heiress, — had been refused in favor of ft Mr. Jeremiah 
Jones, — had been made mockery for the Philistines by the 
daughter of Worts the brewer! To quit the country was 
the only means his fancy suggested of wiping off so vile 
a stain. He could not go too soon, or too far, or with too 
little regard to his own comfort. For once, he would rough 
it, like other men who were not men of fortune. 

Long before he reached Paris, however, the self-conceit 
so long and dearly cherished, had received a thousand shocks 
that made him doubtful of the discretion of his project. It 
was not his sense of niceity that was offended — it was his 
self-conceit. Accustomed, wherever he went, to have his 
consequence bruited by the vulgar boasting of his servants, 
hitherto he had flattered himself that the deference paid to 
the long purse of the rich Cressingham, was tendered to his 
personal distinctions ; and could scarcely brook the familiar- 
ity which slapped on the back and cross-questioned the 
young traveller who spoke such villanous French. The 
shabby old caleche offered to him at Calais as an appropri- 
ate travelling carriage, appeared, to eyes accustomed to 
the equipages of Adams and Houlditch, a positive insult ; 
and when thrust, as a solitary traveller, of little conse- 
quence, into the worst room of the inn, and advised to dine 
at the table d'hote, as more convenient to the waiter, his 
wrath exploded. The postillions greeted him with the dog- 
ged familiarity of all French subordinates paid by the tariff ; 
while the beggars to whom he scattered his coin saluted him 
with a grin as Monsieur Goddam !” The ugliness of the 
country, the ugliness of the people, and, in spite of all this, 
his own utter insignificance among them, disgusted him with 
his journey in the very outset. 

Even in Paris, matters were scarcely more auspicious. 
The bankers refused to cash the bills of a stranger; and, 
till his letters of credit arrived, he was obliged to content 
himself with the moderate sum he had brought away in his 
pocket, and abstain from the immoderate pomps and vani- 


132 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE, 


ties of a fine gentleman. — People consequently treated him 
as they would have treated Gerald Langley, or any other 
good-looking younger brother of tolerable address. — Nobody 
stood aside for him, — nobody waited till he was served, — 
nobody gave up their seat at the play or place in the restau- 
rant , because it was coveted by the rich Cressingham ; — 
and whereas, in revolutionized France, civility has become 
an obsolete weakness, he was more hustled, pushed, shoved, 
trod upon, and sworn at, during his first week in Paris, than 
in the course of all the years that had elapsed since he was 
a fag at Eton. 

So much the better for him ! These petty grievances ef- 
faced the trace of deeper evils. In a month’s time he had 
almost forgotten there was a street in London called Port- 
land Place, or that he had a cousin and a cast-off attorney 
seated in parliament. 

With all his dissatisfaction, however, at the cavalier hab- 
its of the citizens, he was enchanted with the city. The 
buoyancy of the atmosphere, the hilarity of the population, 
the brightness of the shops, the sprightliness of the women, 
the variety of public amusements, afforded a welcome re- 
lief after the unspeakable dulness of Stoke, and the oppres- 
sive formalities of London. — -But, above all, he was unpur- 
sued there by a painful notoriety. If nobody performed 
Ko Too to him, nobody knew that he had been blackballed 
at White’s rejected at Ahnack’s defeated in a county elec- 
tion, refused by an heiress, caricatured as Pine Apple Frit- 
ters Cressingham, and served as minced meat, one day in 
seven, to the curious in newspaper scandal. 

Comforted by finding himself regarded with perfect in- 
difference, after having fancied himself a mark for the jests 
of all around him, he became almost as light of heart as if 
he had not been the rich Cressingham. He was compelled 
indeed to exert his faculties, intellectual and physical, to 
place himself on a par with other people ; but rendered at 
his ease by the independence of his isolation, exertion be- 
came less irksome. By the arrival of the credit on Roths- 
child, which amounted only to a third of the sum he had 
demanded, he had got into the habit of being civil, and of 
not expecting to find himself an object of deference to all 
the world. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


133 


The lurther he went, the rougher and the more efficacious 
his schooling. After spending the remainder of the spring 
in Paris, brightened in spirits and health by the excitement 
of its popular diversions, he proceded to the Rhine ; — and 
while visiting the baths of the Taunus, and mingling with 
the throngs of princes and swindlers at Baden Baden, — 
frequenting table d’hotes and public rooms. — and adding a 
smattering of bad German to bis indifferent French, he was 
gradually sinking by cubits in his self created stature. 

Reginald could scarcely forbear smiling as be recalled to 
mind how, at Oxford, after perusing the sparkling pages of 
; Vivian Grey,” he had dreamed of just such a rough-and- 
ready tour, and regarded it as a pleasure denied to a man of 
his consideration ; — boyishly imagining it as impossible for 
the rich Cressingham to preserve his incognito as for the 
Duke of Wellington. Instead of which, he now readily 
perceived that it would have been far more difficult to per- 
suade the simple Rhinelanders that a plain Mr. Cressingham 
— not ennobled — not a place-holder — not a decore — not a 
chamberlain to any sovereign under the sun — could be en- 
titled to dip in the dish with the smallest Baron of the em- 
pire, or least whiskered of the Russian generals frequenting 
their watering places. 

The lesson was worth learning. It was something to 
have become aware that, in the estimation of a few billions 
or trillions of the continental population, he stood little high- 
er than an Elbeuf clothier, or, at best, some country gentle- 
man of Alsace or Lorraine. From the wandering hordes of 
English travellers, meanwhile, he scrupulously kept aloof. 
He hated their supercilious faces, — he hated their listless 
habits, — he hated their notion that nothing good enough to 
eat, drink, or visit, is to be met with out of England. 

While he was thus storing his mind with that best of wis- 
dom called self-knowledge, the usual consequences ensued 
at home from his abrupt departure for the continent. Tbe 
tailors, of whom he no longer ordered two coats and a 
dozen waistcoats per month, — the coach-makers, who had 
no longer thirty pounds’ worth of repairs to furnish to his 
various carriages, — the silversmiths, where he had ceased to 
exhaust his invention on rainy days by projecting fanciful 
soup-tureens, — all the army of Bond street martyrs, in short, 


134 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


in whose books the name of the rich Cressingham headed 
page after page, and who were content that it should do so 
while there was a prospect of its heading pages and pages 
to come, began to ask angry questions of his man of busi- 
ness, and cross-question the servants in Hamilton Place ; 
and so far from being satisfied, as heretofore, with the grand- 
iloquent answer — “ Good God, sir ! — you surely cannot 
entertain any uneasiness concerning the solvency of a man 
of Mr. Cressingham’s fortune?” — ventured to reply, that a 
gentleman of Mr. Cressingham’s fortune quitting England at 
ten minutes’ notice, tete-a-tete with his portmanteau, had 
very much the air of a gentleman who had met with mis- 
fortune. 

Suspicions, like bats, flit about with wondrous activity in 
the dusk. A cloud once overshadowing the destinies of the 
absentee, it was easy to set in movement the most injurious 
reports. The waiters at the clubs and coffee-houses, to 
whom he had been in the habit of flinging five-pound notes, 
whispered far and near the imputations cast upon the pro- 
digal ; and with the speed usual in such matters, scandals 
which, like sorrows, “ come not single spies, but in battal- 
ions,” bpgat further falsehoods with monstrous haste of 
propagation. 

“ So poor Cress is regularly done up at last !” observed 
Sir Harry Morton to Gerald Langley, as they were smoking 
together on the steps at Crockford’s, one fine night in May. 

“At last? — at first you mean! — I sometimes fancy he 
was born ruined, as children are sometimes still born. Never 
was there a fellow who bungled away his money so con- 
foundedly ! — What did he ever get for it, — except, indeed, 
being laughed at ?” 

“ That,” interrupted Lord Robert Leigh, who was stand- 
ing near them, “ was because he never was a really good 
fellow. There w-as nothing w ; arm or cordial in Cress. He 
couldn’t drink, — he couldn’t play, — he couldn’t ride, — he 
couldn’t dress, — he couldn’t do anything that became the 
position he wanted to shine in. Men hated him because he 
was a prig ; — women because, relying on his fortune, he 
took no pains to be agreeable.” 

“ How was a man to be agreeable who was never at his 
ease, even in his own house ?” cried Langley. “ Some- 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


135 


times, when Cress wanted to do grand at the head of his 
own table, and was giving himself airs, by a single word I 
swear I have made him look as if he were silting upon 
thorns !” 

“That was remarkably kind of you, my dear fellow,” 
coolly observed Morton taking his cigar from his mouth. 

“ Who could help it? — When did Ciessingham spare any 
one it was in his power to show up ? — ” 

“ I never imagined his powers of sarcasm to be very 
alarming,” retorted Morton. “At least he was good- 
natured.” 

“ There are other modes of showing up besides quizzing, 
lie knew, for instance, that I pique myself on my billiards, 
that I am considered second best player in the Guards. 
Well, he n ever got me down to that stupid place of his — 
(where, by the way, the table is a showy affair, but detes- 
table !) — without matching me against Vardyne, who hap- 
pens to be the only man able to give me a point or two. It 
was pure spite of Cress, — nothing but spite. Then to 
Holmeswell, as you may remember, he behaved shamefully ! 
When Lady Adelaide North was going to marry Beacons- 
field, after having refused Cress (just as if the Maunderwells 
would have heard of her marrying Cressingham — a fellow 
without rank or connexion), he insisted upon Holmeswell’s 
booking up a few hundreds he owed him (a loan forced 
upon him by Cress at Oxford ;) and poor Holmeswell had 
the deuce’s own work to make up the sum, without calling 
upon his father ; — who just then you know, marrying his 
daughter, and so forth, would not have found it agreeable to 
stump up.” 

“ How blackguard 1” cried Lord Robert Leigh, not 
troubling himself to recollect the real version of the affair, of 
which he had been a witness. “Well! I’m afraid one 
must give Cress up. It’s a monstrous pity, — for really that 
house in Hamilton Place was pleasant enough at times, and 
very near being the right thing.” 

“ Ay ! but that, a pea pres, is what spoils all that is not 
the right thing in this world!’’ retorted Gerald. “Cress 
wanted tact, — the one thing needful to a man like him, — 
and his house wanted ton. Cress thought that a man’s way 
if paved with gold, was as sure as the North road ; and so, 


136 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


you see, he laid it on so plaguy thick, that he left none for 
the man who was to walk over it — no uncommon case. 
And after all, you know, Cress was not a man o( fortune. 
I don’t call an estate worth having, in which one has only a 
life interest.” 

“ I saw from the first he was in a fair way to be ruined ; 
but I never thought he would turn out a shirking fellow !” — 
was the Parthian blow of Morton, who was many hundreds 
in debt to the absentee ; while lor Lord Robert Leigh, 
Cressingham had engaged his name in bill transactions to an 
amount that had still to be determined. 

Such was the fate of the Heir with many friends, and 
thus was the good name of the prodigal whispered away ! 
The fashionable world talked of him as an extinct meteor — 
the foolish fellow who had done so many preposterous things 
last season, and was now gone to the dogs ; and the sen- 
tence once circulated, was final. The fashionable world 
thinks, feels, and acts in coteries, as regularly as troops are 
manoeuvred in regiments and brigades ; — and had Cress even 
possessed a friend, his single protest would have gone for 
nothing. 

o 

The secluded life led by poor Mrs. Blair, meanwhile for- 
tunately prevented her from becoming cognizant of his dis- 
grace. It was sufficient mortification for the mother of that 
only son, that every day, the newspapers rang with the 
name of her nephew', w-hile the closed up windows and 
weedy lawn of the Hall attested the nothingness of his 
cousin. He was away. He was over the sea. Mothers of 
less fortunate sons were so happy as to enjoy the presence 
of their offspring ; while her hours of solitary suffering were 
fated to be unsoothed by the hand of affection. But of the 
few who shared with her servants the task of varying her 
monotonous day, there was no one cruel enough to repeat 
the rumour circulated in the neighbourhood of Stoke Pad- 
docks by the neighbours still honoured by the notice of the 
honourable member for Llanstephen, that Reginald had 
found it convenient to leave the country. 

Justina, who, though scarcely more than fifteen in age, 
was a woman in reason, noticed with pleasure, and that in 
Reginald’s letters from abroad, which she was admitted to 
the privilege of reading to his mother, he was careful to 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


137 


dwell upon ihe improvement of his health from the early 
hours and sober habits of continental life, as the surest means 
of reconciling her to his absence. For she knew that such 
an argument would suffice. After all, nothing was so natu- 
ral as his tour; and Mrs. Blair might be pardoned her im- 
plicit belief that her son was improving himself by a survey 
of foreign countries, and would soon return to settle perma- 
nently in his own. With her usual amiable faculty of find- 
ing all things for the best, on learning that Reginald was to 
pass the winter at Naples, she actually decided that it was 
just as well he should absent himself from Stoke during the 
prevalence of the unpoularity produced by his election des- 
potism ; which had produced such injurious results, that no 
one could be found to take the vacant farms of the tyrant of 
Stoke Paddocks, and they consequently remained on the 
hands of his steward, who was little prepared to turn them 
to account. 

Justina did not gainsay the opinion of the poor deceived 
mother. But she , poor girl, heard enough at the vicarage 
of Reginald’s crimes and misdemeanors ! The absentee 
was made accountable for the illness and discontent of the 
poor old man, who, moping by his fireside, lamenting over 
the estrangement of his country neighbors consequent upon 
his obsequious devotion to bis patron, ascribed the fault to 
Reginald rather than to himself ; while the melancholy 
Drench seemed to consider that the abstraction of Athana- 
sius Docket from his whist club was equally attributable 
to the nefarious proceedings of the young Man of Fortune. 

In a neighborhood so unincidental, two such events as 
the closing of the Hall and the emigration of the attorney 
were fertile topics of discussion ; and, as if it w r ere necessary 
to espouse the partisanship of either the ward or guardian, 
as Athanasius was now a man in authority, an M. P., nay, 
a valuable, active, plodding, work-a-day member,- -one of 
the darlings of the Carlton Club, while Reginald was noth- 
ing, — an absentee, — a ruined man, — likely to sell his livings 
and neglect his apothecary’s bill, — they were all but unani- 
mous in elevating their worthy friend Docket to the seventh 
heaven, and depressing his victim to its antipodes. 

There was, indeed, much to command the admiration of 
the vulgar in the steady ascent of the attorney. Like the 
VOL. I — 13 


138 


THE MA"N OF FORTUNE. 


mob, who, though they have witnessed the gradual inflation 
of a balloon, cannot restrain their wonder on seeing it mount 
into the clouds, they were full of suprise to find their quon- 
dam cater-cousin figuring at levees and dining at political 
dinners, like any other pillar of the senatorial temple. 
They would have been still more amazed could they have 
been made to understand the influence exercised by his ac- 
tivity of mind and body, his habits of business, and steadi- 
ness of deportment. If not somebody, he was something ; 
for a man conversant with the law, who comes into public 
life in the full maturity of his talents, unhampered by 
public antecedents or family connexions — who has giv- 
en no pledges and accepted no favors, — is inestimable to a 
party. 

The name of Athanasius Docket, Esq., M. P., already 
figured as governor 0 f divers charitable and scientific associa- 
tions, as well as in the Court Guide as owner of a town 
mansion in Duke Street, Westminister, and a country seat 
called Grove House, Llanstephen, N. W. He was under- 
stood to possess considerable property in mines ; and 
a man possessed of property in mines, is regarded as 
a sort of Fortunatus whose riches it is useless to compute. 
Difficult, it certainly is ; and such had probably been his 
cautious motive for investing in a manner so inostensible, the 
accumulation of his thrifty servitude to the successive tyrants 
of Stoke Paddocks. No one was able to point out the extent 
of his possessions, so accurately as to excite surmises con- 
cerning the honesty of their origin. 

All that the world discerned in him was a steady, plod- 
ding, hard-headed lawyer, toryfied by the possession of 
landed property, who had been driven from the agency of 
the Cressingham estates by his abhorrence of the profligacy, 
personal and political, of the young crocodile so strangely 
hatched under his barn-yard wing; and so useful was he on 
committees, so undauntable by files of papers or the thick- 
headedness of country gentlemen, so unshackled by private 
engagements, and so willing and able to do every one’s 
business as well as his own, — that in the course of his first 
session, not a leading man of the party but solicited his ac- 
quaintance, gave him dinners and all the trouble in their 
power ; and it was impossible to be more surely in the way 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


139 


to a baronetcy and the hand of some decayed spinster of 
quality. ' 

If anything were wanting to confirm his odour of sanctity 
in his old neighborhood, it might have been found in the in- 
creasing disorder of the Stoke Paddocks estates. For some 
time, the old steward and his subordinates had labored to 
keep matters together, and fight against the unpopularity 
and disorderliness of their young master. But when such 
people as Snapper and Co. were set in authority over them, 
— when the extortions practised upon them rendered it im- 
possible to do justice to the estate, — when the most ruinous 
levies were made upon the timber, and all seemed devoted 
to waste and ruin, they retreated in shame and disgust, to 
make way for the disreputable successors provided for the 
capital fellow in Gray’s Inn. 

All was now riot and abuse. Messrs. Snapper and Co. 
seemed to consider it absurd that, because the penniless Man 
of Fortune was amusing himself with sailing in the Bay of 
Naples, his pheasants should remain unshot, his rivers 
unfinished, his venison uneaten ; — and if there were in- 
creased difficulty in finding tenants for his farms, there was 
none whatever in wasting the substance they provided. 

Could the ghost of Sir Giles Cressingham have surveyed, 
from beneath his favorite beech-tree, the goings on at Stoke, 
the ignominious race of retainers which supplied the place 
of his respectable janissaries, and the wild and shaggy con- 
dition of his beautiful seat, he would probably have lamented 
the ill judging perversity which had caused him to alienate 
his inheritance from his legal successor, in favor of a boy 
whose childhood he had taken no pains to surround with 
efficient advisers. 


140 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A form of light, like some good influence 
Haunting the precincts of that sad old place. 

Vane 

It would be difficult to imagine anything more closely 
resembling the field of the sluggard, than was now presented 
by the domain of Stoke Paddocks. The only implement 
busy there was the axe. Its fine timber lay cumbering the 
ground; while the weeds in the ill-farmed fields seemed tow- 
ering to supply the place of the fallen oaks and elms of more 
provident centuries. 

Still, nature protects her own ; and whether the park- 
keepers were few or many, the old thorn trees persisted in 
blossoming in their appointed season, and the gorse and 
broom around them were as golden, and the herbage as thy- 
my, as ever. Though the closely shuttered windows of the 
hall imparted a ghastly look, as though the owner lay 
dead, nothing could exceed the lovliness of the fair land- 
scape. 

The few strangers who visited the spot to admire the 
beauty of sites whose charm was unalienable, even by the 
folly of the owner, used to note meanwhile with wonder, 
amid those solitary glades and broomy knolls, a fair girl ever 
wandering there, as if without aim or object, like some 
Hamadryad left shelterless by the destruction of her verdant 
home. Amid those lonely scenes, gathering beauty and 
wisdom into her soul from so intimate an inter-communion 
with the works of nature, Juslina, whose life at the vicarage 
was a weary one, spent the greater share of her summer 
hours in strolling about the venerable place, endeared by a 
thousand early associations. 

The poor old Vicar, peevish and infirm, was often so im- 
patient of the presence of his grand-daughter, that his wife 
promoted more than ever her daily visits to The Wilder- 
ness, where they were so truely acceptable ; and as the vi- 
carage lay at one extremity of the park, and the garden 
gate of M rs. B1 air at tl)e other, nothing was easier than for 
Justiua to loiter by the way, prolonging her ramblings through 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


141 


every quarter of the extensive park. In her simple white 
gown, — her pure young face beaming with intelligence, — 
lier movements replete with natural grace, she might have 
been mistaken for the guardian genius of the place, — albeit 
its condition showed little to attest the providence of her 
guardianship. 

Justina was now just entering her sixteenth year ; and but 
for the solitary and studious nature of her life, would have 
been light-hearted as other girls of that happy age. But 
everything to which she was attached was fated to convey 
saddening impressions. An orphan from her infancy, the 
old people of whom she was the only surviving relative, 
thought they were doing enough for her by laying up three- 
fourths of their income for her sake, without conceiving that 
a more enlivening existence than their dull parlour might be 
advantageous to her mind and health ; — and though this 
early seclusion was so far advantageous that it compelled her 
to have recourse for companionship to books, and books of a 
nature more grave than usually fail into the hands of girls 
not brought up in an old-fashioned country parsonage, it 
produced a singular influence upon her mind and disposition. 
But for those grave and ripening studies, the girl would have 
become a visionary ; but for her lonely rambles among the 
venerable groves and musky gardens of the Hall, too severe- 
ly matter-of-fact. She knew nothing of what is called the 
world ; for the ten or twenty persons of her acquaintance 
were almost as distinct from that well-drilled assemblage as 
if belonging to another sphere; and the deer, to whom the 
voice and step of their daily visitant were now so familiar 
that, forgetting their wildness, they came to her to be car- 
essed, were far more of companions to the high-minded girl 
than such people as the twaddling apothecary of Mrs. Blair, 
or even his feeble patient. 

Still, there were qualities in the invalid at The Wilder- 
ness that greatly endeared her to Justina. Her gentle voice 
and lady-like manners had been the first indication of a 
world more refined than that of her humdrum circle ; and to 
admiration, in process of time, gratitude succeeded. As a 
child, the little orphan of the vicarage had been accepted as 
a plaything ; and as she advanced in girlhood, a thousand 
acts of womanly kindness, — gifts of books, — instruction in 
VOL. I — 13 * 


142 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


music and drawing,— attached her to the mild recluse who, 
in the recreation of her company, strove to forget the ab- 
sence of her son. 

And still, amid all their lessons, their talk was of Regi- 
nald. If Mrs. Blair had a good trait to relate of him, she 
confided it to Justina ; or whenever the little girl indulged in 
reminiscences of those early days, when the schoolboy had 
been so fond of the child, site seemed to feel that it was 
only his mother who would deign to believe that the rich 
Cressinodiam of Stoke Paddocks was the same Reginald 
Blair who had printed al phabets for her instruction, or made 
cowslip balls for her delight. 

By degrees, Justina became almost as a daughter to the 
sick woman, whose shyness and debility of nature brought 
her down almost to the level of her youthful companion. 
Both profited by the connexion ; the girl, in acquiring ele- 
gance of manners beyond what even the refinement of na- 
ture imparted by her peculiar life and studies, might have 
attained ; — the woman, in the gentle sympathy of one who 
loved her as the nearest approach to anything she had ever 
known of a mother. For the good lady at the vicarage was 
a bustling, fussy body, much more intent upon her house- 
hold affairs and village duties than upon fostering the 
affections and faculties of her son’s orphan ; and felt that in 
keeping her from chilblains in winter and overheating her- 
self in summer, she was showing more kindness than by 
listening to nonsensical histories of hawthorn hedges or 
squirrels nests. 

It was consequently from the fair-faced valetudinarian, 
wrapt in her white India shawl, in the corner of her quiet 
chintz sofa, that Justina received the daily kiss, — the p'at 
upon the shoulder, — the reproving or approving smile, — and 
all the matronly caresses which keep up the holier tender- 
nesses of filial life between mother and child. At The 
Wilderness, she was sure of a kind word, let whatever would 
betide. If sometimes cut of spirits, Mrs. Blair was never 
out of humour. Chastened in t lie school of adversity by 
the events of her early widowhood, she had never laid aside 
the humility of nature engendered by her hours of sorrow i 
and was, in fact, as grateful for the little girl’s affection, as 
if she had never earned it by acts of favour and forbearance. 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


143 


Sweet is love-service to such a friend ! — Justina would 
have blushed for herseli had she allowed even her favourite 
rambles over the soft moss in summer, or crisp snow in 
winter, to interfere with her attendance on her partial pro- 
tectress ; and when her grandmother, who, too old for much 
spmpathy in her pursuits, hinted that, since it disturbed the 
good Doctor’s nap after dinner to hear her turning over the 
pages of the book with which she solaced their dull even- 
ings, she might go and dine or drink tea with Mrs. Blair 
whenever she pleased, the offer was readily accepted. 

Sad, therefore, was the event to Reginald’s mother, even 
beyond the common sympathies of neighbourship and good 
will, when a second paralytic seizure, by suddenly carrying 
off the Vicar, threatened to deprive her of her young com- 
panion. She knew that, thenceforth, Justina’s time must be 
devoted to the old lady, and that the old lady must speedily 
make way at the vicarage for the successor long since pro- 
vided by the foresight of Messrs Snapper and Co.; and as it 
was already rumoured that the good Doctor, who, whatever 
treasures he might have been laying up in Heaven, had laid 
up in the land where moth and rust do corrupt no less a sum 
than 38 . 000 /. for the benefit of his widow and their future 
representative, M rs. Blair entertained little doubt that Mrs. 
Chaffles, with so good an income, would hasten to Bath or 
London, for the sake of more cheerful associations for Justina. 

But the widow of the vicarage belonged to a century 
which was wise enough to hold that the pleasures of youth 
ought to be subservient to the comforts of age ; and had no 
mind to uproot herself from a soil in which she had so long 
flourished. 

She had become part and parcel of the neighbourhood of 
Stoke. Stoke was her home. She knew the village by 
heart. Having seen the young people born, and the old 
people young, she cared more about them than about any 
other people, young or old ; and though she was no longer 
privileged to provide them broths when sick, or flannel 
when rheumatic, she would not deny herself the satisfaction 
of at least walking through the village, and being curtseyed 
to, whenever the weather and her patterns permitted. 

The modest mansion inhabited by the honourable mem- 
ber for Llanstephen while the plumage of his new dignities 


144 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


was still unfledged, was fortunately still vacant, at the dist- 
ance of little more than a mile from the village. Thither, 
the widow determined to bend her steps ; and from the 
gratitude evinced by Justina when the decision was an- 
nounced to her, it might have been surmised that her wishes 
alone had been consulted in the selection. 

Now, however, were her trials to commence ! even those 
trials of temper indispensable to perfect every woman’s vo- 
cation upon earth. The old lady, whose time had been so 
fully occupied by her duties as a wife and a Lady Bountiful 
that it was a relief to her to find the leisure of Justina be- 
stowed elsewhere, now discovered (the new Vicaress having 
evinced considerable jealousy of her interference in the vil- 
lage) that there was scarcely a moment in the day in which 
she could dispense with her granddaughter’s society. Even 
after the poor girl had devoted whole mornings to sorting her 
flower-seeds, cataloguing her books, or copying out recipes, 
the fussy old lady would not hear of an evening visit to The 
Wilderness, now that Mrs. Blair’s pony chaise or her own 
must be in requisition for the purpose. No sooner, in short, 
did she perceive the girl’s earnest desire to persist in her 
attentions to her kind friend, than she grew so jealous as to 
make every visit a matter of pain and grief to all parties. 

Still, with grateful forbearance and grateful consistency, 
Justina steered her way between both, with as' little offence 
as possible ; made no reply when reproached with the noble 
fortune laid up for her by those towards whom she evinced 
no natural affection ; and answered only by a gentle kiss on 
the hand of the invalid, when assured that by proper man- 
agement, she might certainly come oftener. She never re- 
belled — never murmured ; — too grateful to Providence for 
having fixed her so near her old home to resent the caprices 
to which she was subjected. The terrors which had seized 
her mind on Mrs. Blair’s suggestion that her grandmother 
would probably settle in town, or at some watering place, 
had made her clearly understand all the value she affixed to 
the beloved haunts of her childhood, and all the torture of 
bidding them adieu. 

Moreover she fancied that, when she was gone, there 
would be no one left to love them ! — Not a single beino- 
connected with the old Hall seemed to take note of the 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


145 


bursting of its vernal verdure, or the reddening of its au- 
tumnal tints. — No soul but herself ever now pushed out the 
little pleasure boat on the lake, to delight in the surround- 
ing scenery ; — no one sauntered through the entangled shrub- 
beries ; no one heeded how the flowers grew wild, or the 
song-birds increased. 

There were certain old trees to which she attached a 
sense of companionship, under which Reginald had made a 
sylvan home for her and her toys in childhood; or where, 
in riper years, she had first turned a page of Shakspeare, or 
dwelt enraptured over the more earnest inspirations of Words- 
worth — inspirations such as her own heart had found in the 
running brooks and green forests, her sole companions. — 
And these, she fancied, would be sacrificed, like the rest, af- 
ter her departure ! — The red cross would be marked upon 
her own old oak, — the oak under which she had watched 
every morning as a child for the first opening of the garden 
gate of The Wilderness, for Reginald to come out and play. 
It was something to keep her eye upon her own oak, even 
though the influence which assigned its first charm had de- 
parted ! — 

For some time past, however, her associations with the 
oak had been growing more satisfactory. The letters now 
addressed to Mrs. Blair by her son, savoured far more of 
Reginald, and far less of Pine-apple Fritters Cressingham. 
There was more truthfulness in his expressions, more reality 
in his kindness. He seemed really eager for her health, and 
welfare, — really glad to find that Mrs. Chaffles had fixed 
herself in the neighborhood ; and that little Tina, as he 
still called her, was so great a comfort to the invalid. Un- 
aware that even his own correspondence passed through 
“ little Tina’s” hands, he expressed his heartfelt delight on 
hearing that she was so well provided for by her grand- 
father. 

“ The precarious nature of Tina’s prospects had often 
made me anxious,” wrote he. “ For though, with such fine 
preferment, it seemed easy for old Chaffles to insure his life, 
or something of that kind, for his grandchild’s benefit, my 
own extravagance and carlessness in money-matters have led 
me to expect no better from other people; and the first 
thing that occurred to me, on learning from my man of bus- 


146 ■ 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


iness that the li v i n or of Stoke had fallen in, was how I could 
decently offer some sort of provision to the widow and 
grandchild : though, if 1 am to believe Messrs Snapper and 
co., the involved slate of my affairs might have rendered it 
difficult !” 

The kind intention of her old playmate was not thrown 
away on the grateful girl ; and she could have wrung her 
hands for very bitterness when, that very evening, on taking 
refuge under her own oak, and diverting her eyes from the 
green laurel hedge overtopping the garden paling of The 
Wilderness towards the £rim-lookin" desolate old Half — she 
felt how little interest was maintained by either his old home 
or his new in the eyes of their owner; — how little they had 
profited by him, or he by them ! 

Little as she knew of worldly business, it was clear to 
Justina, from Mr. Cressingham’s letters, that though in some 
degree aware of the unsatisfactory nature of the parties to 
whom his affairs were trusted, he was too deeply involved 
to extricate himself without more exertion and greater self- 
denial than could be expected from either his nature or ed- 
ucation. She saw that the evils which had arisen from his 
recklessness were, through his inertness, increasing in mag- 
nitude ; nor was it possible to warn him of all that was go- 
ing on upon the estate during his absence. 

Justina could address him only through his mother, who, 
suffering from a disease of the heart, was not to be agitated 
by anxiety or evil tidings without danger. — Nay, even had 
she taken courage to insinuate something nearer the truth to 
Mrs. Blair than had yet come to her knowledge, there was 
every probability that Reginald would turn a deaf ear to 
her suggestions ; for upon the old Vicar’s once presuming 
to hint at the irregularities of the new steward, he had re- 
ceived a harsh rebuff from his natron, who accused him of 
being the partizan of Docket, and blinded in his favor to 
disparage the new man of business. 

Thus was poor Justina condemned to the vexation of 
witnessing in silence the devastation of the property ; and 
hearing, without possibility of affording aid, the mur- 
murs ol the tenants. She beheld all, as in a dream, with- 
out the power of interference. — Frank as her childhood had 
been towards her playmate, nay, frank as her girlhood had 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


147 


been towards the rich Cressingham, at all risks of offending 
and estrangiag him, something o( a woman’s mistrust now 
came over her forewarning that it was not for her to address 
the wayward exile touching the disposal of his affairs. — 

Still, it lessened her joy in the growing rationality of the 
pursuits his letters described, to feel that others were execu- 
ting in his name all the follies he had formerly executed for 
himself; that while he spoke of his rides on the shores of 
the Bosphorous and modest establishment at Pera, the 
house in Hamilton Place remained undisposed of ; nor, till 
a report reached the country through the Duke of Gran- 
ton s family, that a fashionable auctioneer had announced 
the probability of his having in the course of the following 
spring the Stoke Paddocks gallery, more especially a cele- 
brated pair of family portraits by Holbein, to dispose of, 
did Justina become desperate. 

Notwithstanding Reginald’s lukewarm pride in the Cres- 
singhams, as of female descent, she could not suppose him 
capable of disposing for money of such sacred family relics 
as portraits by Holbein, unless on the brink of ruin ; and on 
this occasion actually ventured to address to him a letter of 
remonstrance. 

The result was as she had anticipated. He had no part 
in a project so barbarous ; and on receiving her letter sent a 
bitter reproof to Snapper and Co. for having permitted such 
rumors to get wind. He had once said to them in jest, 
“Money I must have — and if I cannot mortgage my estate, 
I can at least sell my plate and pictures — but it was in 
the same reckless spirit of menace in which he would have 
talked of selling the ashes of his ancestors out of the family 
vault. — 

The letter containing this intelligence conveyed unspeak- 
able comfort to the heart of Justina. Forced to address in 
the tone of a reasonable being the young companion with 
whom he had hitherto dealt as with a wayward and insig- 
nificant child, Reginald could not refrain from adding a few 
grateful words touching her devotedness to his mother. He 
even solemnly recommended Mrs. Blair to her continued 
attention ; adding, in a few illegible words, that, since his 
own disgracefully useless course was fated to afford so little 
addition to her happiness, it was a comfort to feel that she 


148 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


had found a daughter where she was less entitled to expect 
solace and affection. 

Again and again, was this letter perused by the young 
admouitress of Mr. Cressingham ; and long was it worn 
near her heart, as if affording sufficient compensation for all 
the vexatious hours she had endured in consequence of her 
consistent attendance on her friend at The Wilderness. 
But it did not decrease her anxieties on Reginald’s account 
to perceive that he gave himself up as a lost case ; — that he 
still wanted the energy and self-reliance which might have 
enabled him, even now, to start forth in his own defence, 
assume a more appropriate position in the world, and com- 
mand, by higher purposes and steady conduct, the respect 
he had been unable to purchase by prodiga jty of gold. 

She could not, however, again address the absentee. It 
was not for a girl of her age to establish a correspondence 
with a young man of his; and all the result of her altered 
state of feelings towards him was a tone of deeper interest 
in reading aloud his letters to his mother, and milder inter- 
pretation of all she saw and heard concerning his faults and 
lollies. 

i( You are not quite so harsh in your way of talking about 
my poor Reginald as you used to be,” observed Mrs. Blair, 
as she was wishing her good night, after an evening which, 
by special favor of her grandmother, she had been permitted 
to spend at The Wilderness, a few weeks after the arrival of 
the letter from the Levant — “ You speak now as if you 
almost thought he might some day come back an altered 
man, to settle down happily at home !” 

“ God grant it !” replied Justina, bending down to receive 
on her forehead the kiss imprinted there at every parting by 
her adopted mother. 

<£ \\ hat a doubly happy day would it be to me,” added 
Mrs. Blair with a smile, “ could I only hope that the two 
old playmates would take a fancy to each other, — and my 
dearest Tina become my daughter indeed !” 

Tears swam in the eyes of the girl who was receiving these 
affectionate adieus ; but she instantly checked them. 

“II Mr. Cressingham could but hear you utter such hu- 
miliating insinuations!” cried she, “ Mr. Cressingham so 
haughty, so supercilious, 1 will not say proud , — for in such 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


149 


a station as his proper pride appears to me becoming, do you 
imagine that the three years lie has been away have so 
changed him as to make him think the girl lie despised as a 
child compared with himself, — as ill-born and obscurely 
educated, — grown worthy to be the wife of Cressingham of 
Stoke Paddocks?” 

“It is from the change of my own opinions that I have learn- 
ed to hope for an alteration in his. Time Was my dearest 
child, that even 1 was anxious my son should make a bril- 
liant connexion ; I was pleased when the newspapers an- 
nounced that he was to marry Lady iVdelaide North ; and 
conceived that, with Reginald’s fortune, he was entitled to 
match with the aristocracy. But now, [ would rather have 
my little Tina for a daughter-in-law, than any duke’s (laugh- 
ter in the land. There is no reason he should not have 
become as much wiser as myself.” 

“ Beware, at all events, of allowing Mr. Cressingham to 
surmise such a project,” cried Justina, laughingly, as she 
quitted the room, “ or you will be having him turn Turk 
and settle in a kiosk for the remainder of his days, in dread 
of returning to the Hall !” 

The bloom painted upon her cheek by these startling 
allusions, had scarcely subsided when Justina arrived at 
home. But it was not to be of long continuance. She 
saw in a moment that her grandmother had disagreeable 
news to communicate, connected, in some way or other, 
with the family at once the object of her deference and ani- 
mosity. The fussy old lady was big with momentous tidings. 

“And pray, my dear, how did your poor friend bear this 
dreadful affair?” said she, as soon as her granddaughter 
entered the room. “ Pin sure I quite trembled when I 
heard it, to think what the consequence might be to that 
poor shattered frame of hers ! — though 1 can’t bring myself 
to believe her in the sort of precarious condition which poor 
Mr. Drench chooses to fancy. Jt seems tome that people 
who have been ten years and more a-dying, may go on dy- 
ing for ten years to come.” 

But what has occurred, dear grandmamma, to make you 
more anxious than usual on poor Mrs. Blair’s account ?” de- 
manded Justina. 

“ Nothing very particular, my dear, — only this execution ! 

VOL. I. 14 


150 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


To be sure, there never was anything so dreadful !” faiiered 
the old lady- raising her eyes and hands to Heaven, — almost 
sincerely. 

“ What execution ?” persisted Justina, beginning to be 
agitated in her turn. 

“ Why, is it possible, my love, that you have not heard ? 
— There is an execution put in at the Hall, and the sheriff’s 
officers have been in possession since the afternoon !” 

Justina rushed to the bell. She hoped to be in time to 
stop Mrs. Blair’s pony chair. 

“ What on earth are you going to do, Justina ?” cried the 
old lady, perceiving that she was tying on her bonnet. 

“ Return to The Wilderness if the carriage be not gone,” 
said she. “Mrs. Blair will die, should this sad news be 
hastily communicated to her. At present she knows noth- 
ing. Oh ! if 1 could only reach her in time!” 

“My dear, no one would be so cruel as to tell her such a 
thing,” said the old lady, not a little relieved to find from 
the servant that the carriage had been gone ten minutes. 
“Besides, I really cannot have you running about the coun- 
try at this time of night.” 

“ Dear grandmamma, you yourself seemed to think it im- 
possible, just now, but that the news should have already 
reached her. Her servants will have learned it here. Reflect 
upon the consequences !” 

“ No, — I warned John and Mary to be on their guard, in 
case the thing should not have transpired. No one can pos- 
sibly see poor Mrs. Blair to-night; and in the morning, you 
may visit her as early as you please.” 

With this permission, the anxious girl was forced to con- 
tent herself, as she retired to her sleepless pillow ; and in 
the silence of the night, painful indeed was it to contemplate 
the disgrace brought by Reginald upon the threshold of the 
ancient family of which he was the unworthy representative. 
In a thousand forms, with a thousand forebodings, did she 
consider the matter. There was but one chamber in Mrs. 
Blair’s abode that commanded a view of the Hall ; at the 
windows of which, during Reginald’s absence aforetime, the 
fond mother had loved to sit and contemplate the brightness 
of the setting sun reflected upon the multiplicity of windows 
of the old pile. Even for some time after bis departure for 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


151 


the continent, she found enjoyment in the contemplation. 
It was Reginald’s roof, — it was Reginald’s home on which 
she was gazing, and there was a soothing influence in the 
sight. 

But when, amid the altered fortunes of the place, it be- 
came only too evident .that Stoke Paddocks was deserted 
by its master, she ordered the windows to be closed, and the 
room was abandoned. 

That very morning, however, by one of those instincts 
that seem to connect our destinies with some vague and 
mysterious influence whose import is equally inscrutable 
with the Higher will that “ shapes our ends,” Mrs. Blair had 
taken it into her head to repair to the room, and station her- 
self at the forbidden window, leaning upon the arm of Jus- 
tina. She ascribed the caprice to the yearning of a house- 
ridden heart after a more extensive landscape than was 
afforded by her view of the garden of The Wilderness, 
brightened by the revivifying influence of spring. But Jus- 
tina was now persuaded that some deeper hidden impulse 
had produced her sudden interest in the spot she had so long 
dreaded to contemplate. 

“Thank Heaven,” murmured the kind-hearted girl, as 
she vainly attempted to dismiss the recollection from her 
mind, — “ Thank Heaven, that, while she stood there, lean- 
ing on my shoulder, indulging in such happy visions for the 
future, she was spared all conjecture of the afflicting event 
fated to form the climax of her mortifications.” 

At an earlier hour than any other in the village of Stoke 
was astir, Justina ascertained that the claim asserted by the 
sheriff’s officers was a bond amounting to eleven hundred 
pounds, for which Reginald had made himself responsible 
for Lord Robert Leigh, at the period when the Tyrant 
of Stoke Paddocks still rejoiced in the name of the Heir and 
many friends. 

It was some comfort to find that no new imprudence was 
the cause of the evil ; and she consequently took courage to 
hasten to the house of Mr. Drench, who was co-executor 
with her grandmother of the will of the late Vicar, with an 
earnest entreaty that from a sum of two thousand pounds to 
which, by virtue of her father’s settlements, she was entitled 
at the age of fourteen, he would satisfy the demand, and 


152 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


prevent the transaction from coming to the knowledge of bis : 
patient at The Wilderness. 

“ Believe me, 1 run no risk of losing my money,” pleaded 
she, on his flat refusal to sanction an act so preposterous. 

“ You cannot doubt Mr. Cressingham’s eagerness to repay 
me, the moment this disgraceful business comes to his 
knowledge.” 

“ I am very far from certain of his ability,” replied the 
prudent apothecary, “ and take my word for it, the service 
you propose would defeat its own purpose. Other execu- 
tions would follow, in the hope of similar interposition. 
Rest yourself easy, my dear young lady. Nothing can be 
done, but to keep the circumstance from the knowledge of 
Mrs. Blair. You might as well stand on Werlminister 
Bridge, and try to arrest the course of the Thames, as pre- 
tend to stop the ruin and discredit of Regiuald Cressing- 
ham.” 

Vainly did Justina reiterate her impoprtunities. Drench 
stood firm, and their argument was at length interrupted 
by a summons to him to hasten instantly to The Wilder- 
ness. 

u I am afraid this abomniable business has transpired, ** 
cried he, acceding to Justina’s requests to bear him com- 
pany, “in which case Mrs. Blair will never hold up her 
head again.” 

She never did! The event, which the imprudence of 
servants had betrayed to her knowledge, had already struck 
her death-blow; and the service required of the apothecary 
was to restore her to consciousness after a long swoon, from 
which she was with difficulty recovered, and only to relapse 
into insensibility. 

'‘Tell him I forgave him!” — were the first rational 
words she uttered, when at length aware that it was in 
the arms of her adopted daughter she was so tenderly sup- 
ported. 

“ You will see him again and again, to express your own 
feelings,” answered Justina, comprehending all that was 
comprised in her words. “ At present, you are overcome 
by this sad shock.— You will soon, very soon be bet- 
ter ” 

“Never!” replied Mrs. Blair, in a hoarse whisper. “I 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


153 


have borne much suffering. All these silent years of mine, 
have been years of suffering, — years of self-reproach. This 
last blow has only proved the over-brimming drop in my 
cup of sorrow. 1 ” 

“ At some future time you will experience relief from 
having been forced to lay aside the mask you must have 
often found so oppressive,” replied her young friend. 
“ When all this is over, dearest Mrs. Blair, you will be more 
at peace than before.” 

“ It cannot be over. — Such stains are indelible,” replied 
the sufferer, waving her head. “ And it is all my doing, 
Justina. It is I who am the cause of poor Reginald’s ruin. 
I courted riches for him. As a child, I accepted depen- 
dence for him in the house of a cruel, heartless man. When 
he attained the object of my desires, I seemed to worship 
him the more, — worship my only son the more — that he 
was rich and great ; and instead of checking his faults, or 
attempting to mature his judgment, gave way to all his ca- 
prices, and allowed him to grow up in utter hardness of 
heart ! — The hardening influence of money destroyed him. 
As you once said to me, Justina, Reginald was encased from 
his boyhood in a coat of golden armour, that seemed to pre- 
vent all expansion of his natural qualities. — On! my poor 
sou !” — 

<c Compose yourself, dearest friend,” remonstrated Justina, 
terrified by the wildness of her eye and buskiness of her 
voice. 

“ Have I not said that I have forgiven him ?” rejoined 
Mrs. Blair. “ If you love me, Justina, pray in your turn, 
that God may forgive me /” 

It was useless to attempt to lead her to any other train of 
thought. She was dying, — she knew it, — dying with the 
home of her only son, within view of her dwelling, in pos- 
session of the assertors of the law ! 

“ There is one among the family possessions,” faltered the 
conscience-struck mother, as she became aware of the yet 
nearer approach of death, — “ which even he has not been 
able to expose to shame. — See me laid in the family vault, 
Justina. Should he ever return, tell him *it was there I 
took refuge from the publicity of. his disgrace.” 

She never spoke again. — Vainly was she questioned by 
VOL. I. 14 * 


154 


THE MAN OE FORTUNE* 


the apothecary and exhorted by the new Vicar \ nay, vainly 
was she caressed with tears of tenderest sympathy by her 
adopted child. — Her irradiated features betokened joy as she 
listened to the assuaging words of the priest of her faith, — 
her yearning eyes expressed grateful affection towards one 
who had been unto her as a daughter. But ever and anon, 
her eyes wandered with a terrified glance towards the door 
of her chamber, as though in expectation of some outrage 
from the intrusion of the minions of the law. Her mind, 
perhaps, was already wandering. Belter so ! — There can 
he no comfort for the death-bed of a mother tormented by 
the misdoings of a graceless child. 

Justina did not quit her a moment. — In vain was she 
recalled home by mandates of authority ; and in vain did the 
medical man, after a whole day’s watching beside the dying 
woman, insist that his young friend should desist from a duty 
beyond her years and strength. Justina stood beside her 
pillow to the last, — wiped away the dews from her forehead, 
fanned her fainting form, — and at length closed the eyes, 
whose fixed, unconscious gaze proclaimed that the world 
contained a sufferer the less. — 

“ She has been a mother to w?e, and 1 will do by her the 
duty of a daughter!” — said she, in reply to every remon- 
strance; nor, till the limbs of her friend had been arrayed 
for the grave, and the coffin lid was closed over her remains 
did she prepare to quit the house. — 

Just as she was departing from the chamber of death, her 
tearful face muffled in her cloak, and her soul stifled with 
grief, a stranger appeared at the door from which she was 
departing. — Justina recoiled with horror. — Recalling to mind 
the terrors of Mrs. Blair lest some insult should be offered to 
her in her last moments, as it now appeared she had more 
than once undergone during her life-time, she fancied that 
the intruder must be connected with the disgraceful busi- 
ness at the Hall. 

His mode of address, however, instantly dispelled her 
fears. She had ceased to doubt that he was a gentleman, 
even before, with earnest apologies for his intrusion, he an- 
nounced himself to be Richard Cressingham. 

“A rumour of what was going on at Stoke Paddocks 
having reached me at my place in Berkshire, where I was 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


155 


spending the Easter holidays, said he, in explanation of his 
visit, “ L hastened hither to do a kinsman's part by relieving 
the family and the family place from a stigma, absolutely the 
result of ill-will and mischief on the part of those employed 
to act for the absent owner. — All I meditated was to pay off 
the claim : — I was not advised that a more painful duty 
awaited me here towards my unfortunate aunt.’’ 

“ Would that you had arrived in time to soothe her last 
anxieties by proving that her son still possessed a friend,” 
replied Justina, with a heavy sigh ; — “ for her death was as 
devoid of consolation as her life of offence.” — 

With the kindest deference towards the feelings of one 
who, though so young, so almost a child, evinced the wisest 
self-possession in the midst of her afflictions, Mr. Cressing- 
hatn proceeded to state his intention of remaining at Stoke 
till after the funeral, which the instructions of Reginald’s 
man of business had appointed indecently soon, in order to 
obtain earlier possession of The Wilderness ; and it was a 
comfort to Justina to feel that, in Reginald’s absence, she 
was to be countenanced in her last melancholy tribute of 
respect to the dead, by one whose name commanded such 
general respect as that of the member for Wilsbury. — 

The funeral took place ; — and as the procession passed 
through the park, the first gloomy array of death which had 
figured there since the gorgeous funeral of Sir Giles Cres- 
singham, — Justina felt a daughter’s pride in observing that 
her benefactress was speeded to her resting-place by the 
lamentations of the poor; while of the hard-hearted man of 
fortune, not a single human tear had moistened the pall. 
She was grateful too that, as the coffin containing the 
wasted form of that suffering mother was borne past the old 
Hall, no dishonouring presence brought the scoffer and the 
hireling to gaze upon her obsequies. A tearful glance 
towards the grave kinsman of Mrs. Blair, as the funeral 
glided before the portico towards the little church containing 
the family monuments of his race, conveyed her thankful- 
ness for bis interposition ! — 


156 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Show me the grave 

That I have brought her to. Let me weep there 
Till Death himself have pity. 

Fletcher. 

/ - 

A few weeks after these distressing events, Justina was 
loitering, after evening service, in the old church, leaning < 
against the marble balustrade of the monument of a Sir 

o 

Reginald de Cressingham, beside which was the entrance to 
the family vault, and musing with many a grievous retro- 
spection upon the sorrows of her whom she had recently 
seen consigned to that cheerless dwelling, — sorrows all the 
more bitter for the fond maternal pride which had kept them 
so long unacknowledged ; when a travel-worn, haggard man 
hurried along the aisle, and threw himself upon the stones 
of the sepulchre. 

That it was Reginald, she could not entertain a doubt ; 
though his dishevelled appearance bore little trace of the 
fine gentleman of other days ; and respecting his anguish, 
she quietly withdrew from the spot, without venturing to 
address him. 

On arriving, however, at the stile leading from the 
churchyard towards the Vicarage, it occurred to her that 
such remorse as must, or ought to be that of Reginald 
Cressingham, could not be devoid of danger. He was now 
the murderer of his mother, as before of his own good name ; 
and she fancied that he might rush upon self-destruction as 
a refuge from the consciousness of his double crime. Re- 
tracing her steps, therefore, Justina sat anxiously down in 
the porch of the old church, and listened, moan by moan, 
sob by sob, to the tortures of the penitent ; until a sudden 
cessation of his cries suggesting a renewal of her alarm, she 
hurried back into the chancel, and found him extended, 
faint and exhausted, on the ground, while the marble effigies 
standing around, seemed to survey with scorn these bootless 
tortures of the weakling, the last of their race. Sympathiz- 
ing in his desolate condition, Justina now drew towards him, 
took his hand in hers, to whisper the words of comfort and 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


157 


forgiveness she had gathered from the lips of his dying 
mother. 

“ She forgave you and blessed you before she died,” — 
repeated Justina again and again ; and in time, the soothing 
words were of due effect. By degrees Reginald was able 
to explain and question in his turn. He had started from 
the East on the first intimation of an execution having been 
put into his house, — a sufficient intimation of the unworthi- 
ness of the hands to which his affairs were committed, since 
four years of retrenchment had done so little to extricate 
them from involvement. But for the cruel intelligence 
which greeted him the moment he set foot in London he had 
been utterly unprepared ; nor was it till, a few hours after- 
wards, he made his way to Stoke, he could believe in the 
reality of that terrible bereavement. So long as his mother 
survived, there had seemed comfort for him, — hope for him. 
There was nothing now, and he rushed from The Wilder- 
ness to her grave, as if eager to crush both soul and body 
against the stone that parted him from the dead. 

The presence of a mild and patient friend in an hour of 
affliction so especial, might be accepted as a token that the 
mercies of Heaven were not yet wholly withdrawn from one 
who had taken such small account of its benefits. Justina’s 
gentle voice, her silent forbearance, gradually subdued the 
frenzy of his affliction. He listened almost with satisfaction 
to her assurances that for many months preceding his 
mother’s sudden dissolution she had enjoyed better health 
than usual, and more cheering expectations ; that she con- 
tinually talked of him with undiminished affection ; and that 
the unhappy day preceding her release, could alone be said 
to have proved a season of distress. 

All this was but confirmation of the contents of her letters 
to her son, — letters so fondly describing the consolation 
derived from the very friend who now sat beside him as a 
sister, relating with her usual firm but quiet utterance, the 
evils whereof he had been the cause, and the untiring 
motherly love with which they had been endured for his sake. 

“ And you were her only friend !” — he exclaimed at 
length, clasping his hands with an expression of utter despair. 
“But for you, her eyes would have been closed by the 
hands of menials, and her head laid in a neglected grave 1 3 


158 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


“She was not so much on that account an object of com- 
passion,” remonstrated Justina. “ The menials, as you call 
them, who had so long and faithfully attended her, were to 
her as friends. The kind heart of Mrs. Blair found comfort 
in their sympathy. Her death was mourned with respect 
by all who witnessed her blameless life, and with affection 
by those humbler friends who had seen her, ill and feeble, 
attend the death-bed of the faithful old nurse of her son. 
But other tokens of deference awaited her. The chief 
mourner at your mother’s funeral was a man of the highest 
importance in the eyes of his countrymen, — your cousin, 
Mr. Cressingham, of Manny Park 1” 

Reginald started up, — nay, almost recoiled, from the side 
of his companion. — All that was left in his soul of the leav- 
en of his old pride, rose up against this bitter rebuke. 

“ Richard Cressingham 1” was all he faltered, on hearing 
the name of one whom he had supplanted in fortune, and 
who had supplanted him in the estimation of the world, by 
the nobler influence of worth and wisdom. “ There need- 
ed only this to make me know myself a wretch in- 
deed ! ” 

“ A wretch, indeed, if thus heartless in your apprecia- 
tion of the service he has rendered you 1” cried Justina. 
“ Reginald, Reginald ; it was your cousin who defrayed 
that dishonoring debt, — it was your cousin who redeemed 
your house from shame, — it was your cousin who caused 
the head of your mothei to be laid with honor in the 
grave !” 

“And you expect me to forgive him such advantages 
over me !” retorted the humiliated man, smiting his brows, 
as they sat together under the old porch overlooking the se- 
cluded church-yard which formed almost a portion of his 
park. 

“ I scarcely expect you to forgive yourself for being the 
cause of his obtaining them !” was her steady reply. 
“ Nevertheless, if you would still testify your love and ven- 
eration for your poor mother’s memory, — if you would re- 
deem the name of her forefathers from obliquy, — if you 
would cease to be a fable and disgrace to all belon<»in^ to 
you, I beseech yc.u, lay aside these jealous repinings ! You 
asked me just now how you should ever repay my devotion 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


159 


to your mother. Thus ! — Go straight to your cousin. — 
seek his advice in all that regards your worldly interests. 
His ch aracter for wisdom and uprightness ought to satisfy 
you that you cannot have a safer counsellor; and richly 
has he earned your confidence by the promptitude of his 
service.' ” 

Reginald Cressingbam replied by a heavy groan. 

“ I know that 1 am an inert, selfish fool,” he replied. “ I 
know that the mismanagement by which my ruin has been 
completed would disgrace a child. — Can 1 go and throw 
myself on the contempt of a man like Richard Cressingbam 
by such confessions ?” 

“ It is the only chance that may enable you to surmount 
it,” persisted Justina. “ You are fortunate in having a near 
kinsman to whose judgment the nation has recourse in its 
emergencies. Will you be the only one who disdains to 
seek it ? — He extends the olive branch towards you, under 
circumstances that ought to soften the most obdurate heart. 
— Can you refuse to accept the pledge ?” 

Long did Reginald remain absorbed in reflection, and al- 
most sullenly silent. 

“ Go now, — go at once !” persisted Justina, “ Do not 
enter your own home till you have come to such a decision 
as will enable you to restore it and yourself to the position 
you ought to hold. Proceed straight from the grave of your 
mother to the presence of him by whose manly sensibility 
it was hallowed. Forgive me if I speak so resolutely, and 
in a manner perhaps unbecoming my age and our relative 
position. But I speak in her name, — 1 speak with her feel- 
in<rs ! — Could she arise from yonder vault, it would be to 
implore you to be true to yourself, and honor her memory 
by your own restoiation to happiness and respectability.” 

- Such, often reiterated, but reiterated with all the earnest- 
ness of faithful regard, were the expostulations which at 
| length determined the prodigal son to arise and seek the in- 
terposition of his cousin. He could not have decided more 
wisely. Richard Cressingbam, from his kinsmanship with 
the ward of Docket, — the Tyrant of Stoke Paddocks, — the 
butt of Lord Robert Leigh, — the victim of Snapper and 
Co.,— had more than once been apprized of villanies con- 
nected with the affairs of an estate, of which by many he 


160 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


was supposed to be the heir in tail, and was fully prepared 
with faith for the grievances of Reginald, and even with 
data to secure partial redress. 

Under his wise and practical counsels, accordingly such 
measures were adopted for the dismissal of his present men 
of business and the adjustment of his estate, as inspired even 
the desponding man with hopes of a gradual extrication. 

“Nothing but a degree of wilful blindness, little short of 
insanity,” pleaded the member for Wilsbury, “can account 
for the manner in which you have suffered yourself to be 
driven, entanglement by entanglement, into this maze ofl 
ruin.” 

By skilful and persevering investigations, moreover, the 
clever Cressingham was enabled to trace the early involve- 
ments of Reginald to the malversations of his guardian even 
beyond his surmises. The honorable member for Llanste- 
phen proved to be the real bolder of many of those claims 
upon t lie property, which had arisen out of advances at an 
exorbitant rate of interest ; — and the dread of exposure 
such as must have levelled to the dust even his well-con- 
structed temple of plausibility, proved the means of enab- 
ling the new solicitors to strike out such plans of sure but 
gradual payment, as assigned to the proprietor of Stoke 
Paddocks an income fully enabling him to maintain his fam- 
ily respectability at the Hall. 

But from this, the good feeling of Reginald recoiled. He 
determined to settle at The Wilderness, and cause the old 
mansion to stand uninhabited, a memento ever before his 
eyes of his folly and prodigality, till his whole estate should 
be retrieved. — The Wilderness was enough for happiness ; 
— The Wilderness, hallowed by remembrances of his moth- 
er, and sentiments of early friendship, was a home that suf- 
ficed his modified ambition. 

“ And now,” said Richard Cressingham, one day, when, 
many months after their reconciliation, he was putting the 
finishing stroke to the organization of these projects, — 
“ may 1 in return for my good offices, my dear Reginald, 
request your interposition where you seem to hold the influ- 
ence of a brother? — I am a plain spoken fellow, as becomes 
one who is too much a man of figures to pretend to be a 
man of figure. I have long been wanting a wife ; without 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


161 


much leisure on my hands for the arduous task of hunting 
out, in worldly circles, such a companion as would sweeten 
my toils as a public man, without finding her own embitter- 
ed by my gravity. Such a person, — (but in a form, heav- 
en knows, and gifted with superiority of sense and feeling, I 
had despaired of finding united !) have 1 found in your vil- 
lage of Stoke. Try therefore, 1 entreat you, whether you 
cannot assist me in persuading her to demonstrate her affec- 
tion for your poor mother, by restoring to the home where 
Sophia Cressingham first saw the light, all that it has so long 
wanted of female illustration !” — 

Poor Reginald, who was beginning to feel that the one 
thing wanting to the perfecting of his new projects of hap- 
piness, was the hope of recommending himself as a husband 
to one who bad so lightly regarded him as the man of for- 
tune, could scarcely repress a cry of despair as he listened 
to a demand so well founded; and admitted the impossi- 
bility that the hand of the member for Wilsbury should be 
rejected by so wise a girl as Justina, ora man so well estab- 
lished as Cressingham of Manny Park, by Justina’s grand- 
mother. 

“ You will need no recommendation of mine,” said he, 
in a faltering voice. “ A marriage so perfectly assorted 
cannot fail to meet the wishes of all parties.” 

“Nay,” replied his cousin, — on whom the tremulous 
voice and whitening cheek of poor Reginald were not 
thrown away, — “ do not say all parties. 1 see how it is, my 
dear fellow' 1 I was not aware of this attachment. I fan- 
cied your tastes and predilections of a more worldly nature. 
I will think no more of the business. Not a w r ord has ever 
yet escaped my lips to any other than yourself; nor am I 
young enough, idle enough, or enough in love, to suppose 
that the world may not contain elsewhere a partner equally 
suitable for me, whom I may marry without the self-re- 
proach of having broken a tenderer heart than my own.” 

Reginald, however, was not to be outdone in generosity. 
He insisted upon laying the wishes of his cousin distinctly 
and earnestly before one whom they honored, and whose 
happiness he knew must be secured by an alliance so unex- 
ceptionable. Of his own aspirings, — his own ardent affec- 
t ; ons? — he uttered not a syllable ; nor was it till some time 
VOL. I — 15 


162 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


had elapsed after the decided though grateful refusal of one 
whose prospects in life rendered her no ineligible match 
even for the squire of Manny Park, relieved him ol his scru-* 
pies, that Reginald by degrees began to insinuate his ardent 
desire of converting her long and consistent friendship into a 
Warmer sentiment. 

“ You used to tell me, dearest Justina, that I should never 
have a friend; — I have found one in the man I most de- 
tested ! You used to tell me 1 should never have an opin- 
ion of my own ; will you not accept my fervent attachment 
as a proof to the contrary ?” whispered Reginald, as he 
pressed his suit upon the playmate of his childhood, who 
listened without any apparent reluctance. But whatever 
her secret joy at finding herself beloved by one for whom 
her own affection had grown with her growth, she w'as not 
so much the slave of her feelings as to accept the good in- 
tentions of Reginald Cressingham as a sufficient assurance of 
his reformation. His natural instability of character sug- 
gested caution. Justina knew that he had been on the point 
of sacrificing his pride for an interested marriage ; — he might 
perhaps, feel it a greater sacrifice now, though now renounced 
at a higher instigation. She chose, therefore, to assure her- 
self by experience whether the alteration of his views and 
habits were likely to prove permanent, and demanded time 
for the trial. 

The probation, however, was not to be of a very barba- 
rous nature. Residing in the same village, meeting every 
day ol their lives, the two years’ engagement on which she 
insisted as a token of his sincerity, served only to endear to 
each other two persons worthy of a mutual attachment; and 
though the death of the Vicar’s widow within a year of the 
period originally appointed for their union, afforded a fair 
excuse to Justina for accelerating the event, she was firm in 
requiring that her eighteenth year should be accomplished 
ere she gave her hand to the object of her first affections. 
May the docility with which the Tyrant of Stoke Paddocks 
submitted to the decree of his fair despot, be accepted as 
sufficient evidence of his amended temper ! 

The two years wore to an end — It was a very happy wed- 
ding — it promises to be a very happy marriage. Mrs. 
Cressingham, by the devotion of her handsome fortune to 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


163 


the further extrication of the estate of Stoke Paddocks, has 
earned the gratitude of her husband by placing him in the 
all but unencumbered enjoyment of his fine income ; and 
the son and heir born to them last year, saw the light under 
the roof of the old Hall, in all its former dignity and pride; 
when, (or the first time, Reginald took part in the rejoicings 
of the village of Stoke, and heard the bob-majors pealed in 
his honor. But for the recollection that she who would so 
fondly have rejoiced in the sound had been deprived by his 
follies of the enjoyment of a tranquil old age, he would not 
at that moment have had a sorrow in the w r orld ! 

Such people as Lord Holrneswell, Sir Henry Morton, and 
Bob Leigh, laughed heartily at the announcement of his 
marriage with the granddaughter of the old Vicar, regarding 
it as confirmation of their former verdict, that “ it was all up 
with poor Cress !” — But the honorable position now r main- 
tained in his county by Cressingham of Stoke Paddocks, and 
the friendship of a happy circle of good and honorable 
families, w ho readily overlooked the early follies of a man, 
for whose reform no less a person than the member for 
Wilsbury deigned to stand sponsor, afforded all the society 
and distinction wanted in former days to the respectability of 
the family place. Even the houses of Granton and Beacons- 
field have discovered, with profit to themselves, that Stoke is 
within visiting distance. 

Athanasius Docket, meanwhile, having fallen into disgrace 
with his party upon the discovery of his negotiations w'ith 
government for the governorship of one of the new South 
Sea Colonies, was thrown out of Parliament at the late 
election ; and is said to be on the point of sailing for Aus- 
tralia, where he has invested a considerable portion of his 
ill-gotten gains. In England, his career was crushed. He 
was observed never to hold up his head in the House from 
the moment he was unable to confront the contemptuous 
smile of the honorable member for Wilsbury. 

The ill-omened old beech tree of Sir Giles Cressingham 
has been levelled with the lawn ; and all the cogitations of 
Reginald now occur under the spreading branches of the 
oak” sacred to Justina. It may consequently be inferred 
that they are not of a very gloomy nature ; and that, under 
{he prudent guidance of such parents, the present “ Heir’’ 


164 


THE MAN OF FORTUNE. 


will become worthy of “ many friends — and trained in 
sentiments of honor sobered by honesty, and generosity 
tempered by prudence, he will, at some future period, 
accredit the responsible position of a “ Man of Fortune.” 


ANGO, OR THE MERCHANT PRINCE. 



PART I. 


Normandy may be numbered among the countries which 
have sent forth their people to conquer and colonize, leaving 
the fatherland to degenerate into insignificance. The ma^- 
nificence of its ruined castles and venerable cathedrals at- 
tests the ancient importance of the Duchy ; and there are 
episodes of its history during the middle ages, tinctured with 
the wildest characteristics of romance. 

The power and glory of the maritime republics of Italy, 
as recorded by historians, would probably appear fabulous, 
but for the survival of those marble palaces, whose mildewed 
galleries and echoing halls attract the wanderings of the 
traveller to the Lagunes of Venice, or the Bay of Genoa. 
The romantic history of the Foscari and the Dorias, is more 
authentically writ in marble than in historical annals ; and 
even the memory of Venetian Doges, personally insigni- 
ficant, is embalmed in the choicest sanctuaries of poetry and 
art. But what remains in the paltry unaspiring little town 
of Dieppe to inspire belief in the legend that, while Wolsey 
was immortalizing himself in England, as the founder of 
colleges and patron of Holbein, a simple burgess of a poor 
fishing-town of Normandy not only raised himself to princely 
opulence by the boldness of his commercial speculations,, 
VOL. I 15* 


166 


ANGO, OR THE 


but had the courage to make war, single-handed, upon the 
King of Portugal ; and the refinement to procure artists 
from Italy for the adornment of his villa upon the rugged 
Norman coast? Such, however, were the feats of John 
Ango; who, in the year 1530, had brought the port of 
Dieppe into a condition rivalling that of the maritime re- 
publics, and his name into competition with the names of 
Doges and Kings. 

Ango was a native of the little borough so largely indebt- 
ed to his munificence. — The only son of a rich shipowner, 
who had raised himself, by industry, from the bumble con- 
dition of a mariner of the Pollet, young Ango was despatched 
by his father, at an early age, on various expeditions, 
likely to rouse, in an enterprising mind, the spirit of maritime 
adventure. It was the golden age of discovery. Every 
sovereign in Europe, and many independent states, were 
arming vessels, with a view of enlarging their possessions at 
the expense of the “Dusky men of Ind,” instead of their 
European neighbors ; and Ango, while pursuing his father’s 
mercenary speculations of traffic, became inspired with ar- 
dour to emulate the feats of Cabot or Columbus. From the 
the middle of the fourteenth century — full sixty years before 
the commencement of the enterprises of Portugal — the port 
of Dieppe, in conjunction with the city of Rouen, had en- 
gaged in voyages of discovery and speculation on the Guinea 
coast. By them was the name of Cap Vert first bestowed 
upon the woody headland, afterwards distinguished by the 
Portuguese as Cape Verd ; while the first European stetle- 
ment formed in Africa, was named Petit Dieppe, by the 
French discoverers from a supposed resemblance to the 
position of their native town. 

In 1402, Bethancourt, a Norman gentleman, conquered 
and proclaimed himself sovereign of the Canary Islands ; 
and, in the East, the discovery of Sumatra was, about the 
same time, effected by Parmentier, a Dieppois captain, 
whose journals are 9till extant. But although discoveries 
and conquests may be effected by the enterprise of individu- 
als, the resources of a sovereign state are indispensible to 
keep up the colonial establishments necessary to their pre- 
servation. The Dieppois adventurers, attacked by the ar- 
maments of the King of Portugal, were soon compelled to 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


167 


resign their Oriental conquests, and content themselves 
with bringing home, from the Guinea coast, cargoes of gold 
dust, pepper, and, above all, of elephants’ teeth, which they 
were soon instructed to turn to such good account in carving 
and sculpture ; their hereditary proficiency in which elegant 
art, still constitutes one of the chief resources of the town. 
There are carvings in ivory in existence, of the choicest 
beauty, known to have been produced by the Dieppois, in 
the reign of Francis I ; and their fine Gothic church of 
St. Jacques still possesses a curious bas-relief of consid- 
erable length, bearing the date 1530, and composed of the 
figures of Indians, Asiatic and American ; of negroes, and 
the natives of Madagascar; surrounded with characteristic 
attributes and the chief productions of their several countries ; 
a relic which suffices to prove that the Dieppois were not 
only familiar with the aspect of the newly discovered coun- 
tries, but that they possessed sculptors capable of perpetua- 
ting their configuration. 

Thirty years previous to the erection of this curious tro- 
phy, the father of John Ango was the first to arm vessels 
for the formation of an establishment on the coast of New- 
foundland. But, though baffled in his intentions of main- 
taining a permanent colony, he continued to despatch an 
annual fleet to the northern coasts ; and, enriched by the 
monopoly of the cod fishery, soon attained such opulence as 
inspired the mind of bis son with still higher ambitions. It 
was not enough that, from the windows of his father’s rude 
mansion on the port of Dieppe, John Ango beheld his ves- 
sels ranged in order, with hundreds of mariners wearing on 
their sleeves the initials of his father, engaged in unlading 
the precious commodities collected from different quarters of 
the world. On a recent expedition to the Levant, John 
Ano-o had been forced by stress of weather into an Italian 
port ; and, profiting by the occasion, had visited, during the 
refitting of his dismasted vessel, the cities of Rome and Na- 
ples. The aspect of so much splendor, so much refinement, 
produced in a powerful mind, wholly uncultivated, a degree 
of excitement almost alarming. Dazzled, intoxicated, be- 
wildered, John Ango lost sight of all but his personal grati- 
fication ; and having surrendered the command of his 
father’s merchant ship to a mate, his elder in years and ex- 


168 


AN60, OR THtJ 

perience and possessed of old Ango’s confidence, he suffered 
the Royal Charles to proceed on its voyage. 

The spell-bound youth resolved to live and die among 
the enchantments of Naples. To devote the high faculties 
he was conscious of possessing to the pursuit of serious 
study, was an effort beyond the philosophy of one-and- 
twenty. After passing his boyhood in traffic with the na- 
tives of Madagascar, Malacca, and Labrador, to be suddenly 
familiarized with the fine forms of Italy, the glories of 
ancient sculpture, and the awakening beauties of a new era 
of triumph for the arts, was as the effect of enchantment. 
His life was now passed in frequenting the studios of those 
painters whose names are familiar in the mouths of men as 
those of the greatest statesmen or conquerors ; and in visit- 
ing the gorgeous fanes risen and rising under the auspices of 
the accomplished Princes of Italy. He beheld Florence, 
resplendent under the sceptre of the Medici, Milan, Genoa, 
Venice, Rome ; and his young heart thrilled with luxurious 
delight at beholding surpassed the illusions of his boyish 
dreams. 

Ango’s first impulse, however, was that of grief and mor- 
tification, at knowing his destinies to be fixed in an inclem- 
ent northern climate, in an impoverished province, among 
rude uncultivated men, destined to war with nature for their 
daily bread, to traverse trackless seas, and dispute with 
savages for the produce of more prolific countries. His 
next reflection was that of higher inspiration. He might be- 
come the father of his country, the Cosmo de Medicis of 
Dieppe. By the accumulation of still greater wealth, in 
addition to the fortunes of his father, he might acquire the 
power of transporting to his northern home the aits and 
elegance of Italy. 

It was an epoch of universal improvement. Charles V, 
Henry VIII, Francis I, were effecting for their several 
kingdoms, all that royal patronage can effect for the ad- 
vancement of learning and civilization ; and Ango, who, 
with deep pity for the rudeness of his countrymen, had the 
utmost faith in their capacity, doubted not that his exertions 
for the improvement of his native town would be crowned 
with success, if not in his own time, at least in that of a 
succeeding generation. Indignant rather than mortified at 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


169 


his ignorance, he determined to become the patron of the 
revival of letters and the arts in the Duchy of Normandy ; 
the rival of his Sovereign Prince; nay, perhaps, himself an 
ennobled and dangerous subject. At present, he was but 
Ango the mariner, an individual disqualified to figure in the 
Courts of Kings. He would make himself heard of as an 
influencer of the destinies of mankind. He would command 
rather than solicit preferment. Such were the anticipations 
which, after the lapse of fourteen months, determined him to 
submit to his father’s decree, that he should either embark 
instantly at Leghorn, in a brig armed expressly for the pur- 
pose of bringing back the prodigal son ; or forfeit all ex- 
pectation of sharing with his sister Genevieve the fortunes of 
his family. Prepared for the parernal reprobation he should 
have to encounter on landing at Dieppe, Ango summoned 
his patience to listen with becoming humility to the invec- 
tives of the coarse old seaman, his father, and the tedious 
homilies of a mother who retained the costume, habits, and 
language of a Poltaise ; a tribe exhibiting, within bow-shot 
of the town of Dieppe, a peculiar dialect, dress, and mode 
of existence, attesting the truth of the legend, that the in- 
habitants of the Pollet are colonists from some Mediterra- 
nean port. 

On arriving at home, however, the anticipations of the 
young truant were agreeably disappointed. He found, in- 
deed, the same rude fare, the same bare walls, brick floor, 
and naked rafters ; the pride of the rich shipowner being in- 
vested rather in the greatness of his argosies, than in the 
effeminacies of luxurious life. But he found no harshness — 
he met with no reproaches. Long absence pleaded power- 
fully in his favour. The simple-hearted mother, who wept 
upon his neck, had feared never again to behold her only 
son ; and it was impossible even for the iron-nerved old 
mariner to refrain from a tear of joy, when he looked upon 
the comely youth who had brought from more civilized cities 
a bearing and address, such as had never been seen in 
Dieppe, since Robert the Norman held his Court in the 
Castle of Arques. 

There was one member of the family, meanwhile, who 
regarded the graces of the new comer with a less favourable 
eye. Genevieve Ango, unlettered as her mother, and 


170 


ANGO, OR THE 


strong-hearted as her father, was disposed to treat with con- 
tempt the new-fangled habits of life, of which even her in- 
telligent brother’s description could scarcely enable her to 
form a correct idea. With the prejudice of ignorance, 
Genevieve was a staunch opponent of all innovation. <£ Let 
us live as our fathers lived,” was the proverbial saying of 
one who saw not that the labours of the lather are intended 
to improve the condition of the child. Ignorant of all 
beyond the walls of her native place, Genevieve was unable 
to estimate by their results the advantages of education and 
refinement. She knew only that the forefathers of her 
parents had lived and died virtuous and respected, in the 
fear of God and veneration of the King, without greater 
knowledge of men or things than was to be gathered on the 
shores of the harbour, by the exercise^of their eyes and ears. 
A more extended education she conceived to belong ex- 
clusively to the priesthood, to enable them the better to ex- 
pound to their flock the mysteries of their salvation. The 
tales unfolded by her brother of the merchant Princes of 
Italy, with their marble palaces, their galleries of profane 
pictures and statues, and orchestras of profane music, 
Genevieve regarded with contempt. The chorus of Poltaise 
fishermen, on summer afternoons, comprised her notions of 
harmony ; and as to carving and picture-making, to apply 
such luxurious arts to aught save the adornment of the altars 
of God and his saints, appeared to the simple-minded 
Dieppoise, flat blasphemy. At length, finding that his 
mother sat crossing herself, and that his sister listened with a 
contemptuous smile to his narratives of the wonders of Italy, 
be refrained from all further allusion to a theme so little 
suited to their apprehensions, and devoted himself, heart and 
soul, to the furtherance of his father’s commercial specula- 
tions. There lay his hopes of wealth, of aggrandisement, 
of happiness ! 

Old Ango, however, was not the man to listen to the 
suggestions of a stripling. Unskilled to appreciate the high 
intelligence of his son, the grey-headed Dieppois made it a 
point of religion to adopt none of the improvements sug- 
gested by the travels of his son. Just as his wife and 
daughter preferred listening to the wondrous tales of savage 
men, “ gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire,” brought bach 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


171 


by Ango’s captains from Mozambique or the Spice Islands, 
to all the descriptions of the Vatican, hazarded by their 
travelled kinsman, the old adventurer chose to adhere to the 
simple science of hydrography cultivated by the Norman 
sailors, rather than emerge into the novel principles imbibed 
by his son in the nautical schools of Genoa or Venice. 
With the old ways, he had prospered. By them his vessels 
had been enabled to confront the tornados and typhoons of 
tropical climates. His crews had evaded those floating 
mountains of ice, still as apocryphal to the conceptions of 
the greater part of Europe as modern tales of the sea-ser- 
pent or kraken. He cared nothing to learn the processes of 
the dockyards of the Doges. The main point was to see 
his cargoes of codfish encumbering the market-place, and to 
find his rich bales of spices embalming the warehouses on the 
Pollet. 

Reluctantly did John Ango cede to the dominion of par- 
ental authority. The good man, his father, waxed old. It 
was needless to fret his soul by opposition. The time 
would come when he should be at liberty to pursue, on a 
more extended and enlightened scale, the system which had 
rendered the name of Ango familiar in the ears of the mer- 
chants of the Eastern, and the adventurers of the Western 
hemispheres. 

A stormy point, meanwhile, remained to be discussed 
between the father and son. It was the earnest desire of 
old An^o to behold the heir of his wealth wedded to the 
only child ofone of the richest landowners in the neighbour- 
hood of Dieppe ; nor did the disgust manifested by the 
accomplished traveller at the coarseness of mind and man- 
ners exhibited by the buxom Norman heiress, induce him to 
relinquish his purpose. Already the family quarrel ran 
high ; and Genevieve, to whom her brother had confided 
that a love engagement in Italy rendered impossible the 
alliance projected by bis family, made it a matter of con- 
science to apprize her brother that, in case of his persisting 
in his refusal, their father was likely to concentrate his 
riches in a single bequest to herself. Even this menace 
availed not. John Arigo felt that, with the helpmate pro- 
vided for him, his ambitious projects would lose their charm ; 
and he was on the point of breaking into open rebellion, 


172 


ANGO, OR THE 


when a fall in his own dockyard accelerated the end of the 
infirm old man. The elder Ango was conveyed to his eter- 
nal rest in the church of St. Jacques ; and the younger 
commenced a public career, which was to afford his name a 
permanent inscription in the annals of his native country. 

The first anxiety of his sister arose from alarm lest her 
positive and somewhat arrogant brother might be tempted to 
visit upon the aged widow the part she had taken in pro- 
moting, by menaces and severity, a marriage distasteful to 
her son. She feared that the young man, on whom had 
devolved, according to the usance of the country, the entire 
inheritance of an intestate father, might be moved to eject 
from his new home the venerable woman whose habits and 
opinions were so little in accordance with his own. Her 
brother differed so totally from herself in views and prin- 
ciples, that Genevieve could deduce no inference from the 
tone of her own feelings, and knew not to what extent his 
resentment might be carried. But that she feared he might 
suppose her solicitous for her own destinies, she would have 
hastened to implore him not to infringe the imperative duties 
of filial respect. 

There was, however, nothing to fear. John Ango not 
only requested his mother to remain mistress 'of the es- 
tablishment over which she had so long presided, but made 
an immediate deed of gift, conveying his ancestral house to 
his sister on the demise of their surviving parent, signifying 
his intention of erecting for himself a mansion in better ac- 
cordance with the state of their altered fortune ; and in a 
short period after his father’s decease, not only were a dozen 
vessels of superior construction in progress in his dockyard, 
but the foundations were already laid of that princely habita- 
tion which, till the bombardment of Dieppe, drew stran- 
gers from all countries to admire the rich carving and em- 
blazonments of the “ House of Ango.” 

To the surprise of his fellow-townsmen, who already look- 
ed to him for support in all their public enterprises, Ango, 
instead of remaining on the spot to watch the progress of his I 
property, was ever journeying to Rouen, to Caen, and even 
to Paris, for the prosecution of new commercial speculations. 
Not satisfied with arming privateers, and despatching ships 
to every port of Europe or Asia, he contrived to recommend 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


173 


himself to the favour of the Archbishop of Rouen, the cele- 
brated Cardinal d’Amboise ; and obtained, through his 
recommendation at court, the monopoly of salt and grain, 
the comptrollership of the harbour of Dieppe, and other 
privileges of vast importance. He next undertook the re- 
ceivership of the revenues of the Duchy of Longueville, and 
farmed the Abbey lands of Fescamp and St. Blaise, as well 
as those of various secular signiories of the Caux district. 
The prodigious command of money thus secured to him, 
placed ail the markets of the neighbourhood in his hand : 
every day the population of Dieppe began to feel itself more 
and more dependent on the good offices of Ango. 

Unchanged in the courtesy of his deportment towards 
those who sought his protection, the young adventurer had 
already won golden opinions from his early associates. 
They admired his intelligence and energy, and took pride in 
his pretensions. It was but his sister Genevieve who trembled 
for the results of his audacity, not only as influencing his 
fortunes, but his character. 

“ Ango is growing too proud, and it is written that pride 
shall have a fall l” argued the Polletaise maiden. “ What 
better is my brother than the mother who bore him, that he 
must needs have a dwelling-house carved with dainty devices, 
when one formed of the rough and rugged stone sufficeth 
his father’s widow ? — His garments are not fashioned like 
those of this country. His tongue affecteth a foreign idiom. 
I tremble for John Ango !” 

It was in the midst of such misgivings that she was ac- 
costed by the object of her reverie, who came to bid fare- 
well to his family, as on the eve of a journey of impor- 
tance. 

“ My homestead is all but complete,” said he. “The 
tapestry-makers appointed to furnish it for my use, will be 
here anon from Rouen. Have sometimes an eye to them, 
Genevieve, during my absence.” 

“ I will take heed that there shall be neither wastery 
or riot among your people,” replied Genevieve. “ But ” 

“ Take heed rather that there be no sparing or parsimony 
to prevent my new habitation from becoming, as I would 
fain have it, "a cage fora Phoenix, a new wonder of the 
world !” interrupted her brother. “ I would have men say* 
VOL. I. — 16 


174 


ANGO, OR THE 

as they steer into the harbor of Dieppe, I come to behold 
the palace of John Ango.” 

Genevieve shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “And 
whither are you bound, then,” said she, “ that you leave 
such grave charges in your sister’s hands? To the Moluc- 
cas, in your good ship the Salamander , or to Siam in your 
Royal Dieppois l The season scarce holds for the north- 
western coast.” 

“Trouble not your mind for my goings or comings,” 
interrutpted her brother, with a smile. “ My errand is 
simply to bring home a white dove of peace to my sea-gull’s 
nest.” 

“You are bound to Italy, then 1” cried Genevieve, 
starting up and clapping her hands ; then suddenly relapsing 
into mournfulness— “ 1 fancied — I trusted,” quoth she, 
“that you had abandoned so mad a quest 1’’ 

“Abandoned my every hope of earthly happiness?” 
cried the young man with enthusiasm. “ Abandon her who, 
for the three last mortal years, hath been my dream by 
night, my thought by day ? For whom but my Bianca have 
I reared yonder mansion ? For whom but my Bianca have 
I striven to elevate my station and augment my means ? 
But that I cared not to bring home a daughter of the noble 
house of Riario to a smoky hovel of Dieppe, already had I 
passed the Bay of Biscay to bear hither in our own fair gal- 
ley the lovely lady of my thoughts. 1 chose not that my 
blessed Bianca should step upon a coarser footcloth than in 
her uncle’s palace ; and lo ! my preparations are achieved 
— my plans complete. Within six weeks, dear Genevieve, 
I shall be here again, to place a sister in your gentle 
bosom.” 

“A sister who will despise both me and mine!” said 
Genevieve, in a tone of deep despondency. “ Nay, in lieu 
of gaining a sister, I shall perchance lose my brother. This 
daughter of a princely line may be influenced by the power 
of love to wed John Ango, the son of a Norman fisherman ; 
but the impulse which blinds her to the humiliation of such 
an alliance, will not render her insensible to the homeliness 
of his family. She will despise the untutored mother, 
the unletterered sister ; and our household happiness is gone 
for ever ! Nay, although the persuasions of the voice she 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


175 


loves may have induced the damsel to overlook the distance 
between her high esiate and that of her Norman suitor, when 
she comes hither and beholds him in active truth the mate 
of petty traders, the kinsman of humble mariners of the 
Pollet, she will surely grieve at having exchanged her 
patrician name for the degrading appellation of Madame 
Ango !” 

“ Her husband may, perhaps, shortly achieve a more 
honorable title for her acceptance,” rejoined Ango, turning 
lightly on his heel ; and, before Genevieve could ask an 
explanation of his words, he had strained her in a parting 
embrace. During the tedious five months of his absence 
from Dieppe, often did she ponder over his saying. But 
she had none to whom to turn for explanation. She could 
not call to mind that Ango was familiar with any. He was 
rather gracious than friendly towards his young fellow- 
townsmen. He vouchsafed them his aid, but never his con- 
fidence. With her mother, a woman of threescore years 
and ten, oppressed with infirmities, it was no longer possi- 
ble to commune ; and Genevieve chose rather to divert her 
thoughts from her brother’s mysterious communication by 
watching over the completion of his splended mansion, which 
was now constantly surrounded by an admiring throng of 
the Dieppois, clapping their hands, and crying aloud with 
exultation — “ Ango — Ango !” 

At length, one fine autumnal morning, signal was given in 
the port that the fine galley in which Ango had embarked 
for the Mediterranean, was in sight. — The next tide brought 
her into harbor; and the next hour the bridegroom into the 
arms of his sister, who was waiting in the porch of his dwel- 
ling to welcome the Italian bride Ango’s brow was fora mo- 
ment crimsoned with vexation, to perceive that Genevieve, 
on even, so momentous an occasion, had disdained to lay aside 
her uncouth Norman costume. But, on glancing a second time 
towards her, he was fain to admit that the fine expressive 
turn of her countenance was sufficient adornment. At this 
moment, her eyes were fixed upon the person of her new 
sister-in-law with such rapt and intense admiration, that 
it was impossible for the young bridegroom to do less 
than press her a second time in his arms in token of grati- 
tude. 


176 


ANGO, OR THE 


The Lady Bianca was in truth, the loveliest creature that 
had ever set foot on the Norman shore ; and Genevieve no 
longer wondered at the repugnance which had prevented her 
brother from taking to his bosom the coarse-featured heiress 
of St. Martin le Gaillard. The only fault which Ango’s 
sister could detect, and it was a fault that necessarily in- 
creased in importance when they came to abide together, 
was the impossibility of reading the nature of her sentiments 
in her serene eyes and unvarying countenance. Impertur- 
bable mildness, or, it might be, immovable resolution, seemed 
pictured in her gentle face. She gazed with a smile of un- 
concern upon the rich preparations completed for her re- 
ception ; and the sanguine heart of Ango was disappointed 
when he saw how little that of his bride was interested in 
the gorgeous carvings and emblazonments which had taxed 
all the choicest artists of Normandy to bring them to perfec- 
tion. He took no heed of the diminutive proportions of his 
dwelling, compared with the stately pride of the Palazzo 
Riario ; or, that the walls of her uncle’s house, instead of 
being adorned by quaint carvings in mood, shone with the 
luminous inspirations of Raphael and Leonardo. Even the 
exotic flowers, the orange and pomegranate blossoms, which 
Genevieve had procured at immense cost from Paris to 
impart to her new sister’s bower chamber the fragrance and 
and aspect of her native climate, were weeds in the Sicilian 
gardens of the father of Bianca. 

There were objects, however, wholly new to the experi- 
ence of the young stranger which soon captivated her atten- 
tion. The Gothic magnificence of the old church of St. 
Remy ; the tall white cliffs at whose base the chafing tides 
of the northern seas threw up their snowy surf ; the rich 
pastures of the pastoral valley of Arques, green and leafy,! 
beyond all experience of the Neapolitan maiden ; all these 
impressed her with some degree of admiration for the 
little JNorman nook in which her future existence was to 
wear away. 

But she felt that it wets to wear away.” Tenderly j 
attached to the enthusiastic Ango, she had made the: sac- 
rifice of her patrician splendors cheerfully; but not without 
the full consciousness of having made it. Bu$ .she did not, j 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


177 


for a moment, forget that she, who was the daughrer of 
Prince Riario, the Sicilian noble, was now the wife of 
Ango, captain of a rude armament of Norman privateers. 


PART II. 

Ten years elapsed. The lovely bride of eighteen be- 
came the matron and mother of eight-and-twenty ; and 
the dark-haired Genevieve, her elder only by a year, was 
now a nun among the sisters of St. Mary, in a small convent 
on tile shore, beside the fortress of the Pollet. It was not 
without deep regret that Ango beheld his only sister retire 
from the world in which his now miraculously advancing 
fortunes were become a wonder for the admiration of man- 
kind. He had wished to see her nobly wedded ; and not a 
few among the spendthrift seigneurs of Normandy had pre- 
tended to the hand of one so highly gifted by nature, and 
so lavishly endowed by her brother with worldly riches. 
But Gen evieve was inflexible. Though conscious of no 
peculiar vocation for the cloister, she felt that she was equally 
ill adapted for the struggles of the great world. 

Cl There was a time,” said she, in reply to the remon- 
strances of her brother, u when I flattered myself of being 
so strong in mind as to despise distinctions of rank or educa- 
tion. I confess my weakness. To persist in my resolution 
of wedding with one of my own degree, some rude captain 
of the port, is an effort of prudence of which I am no longer 
capable. But it is not your influence, dear brother, which 
hath wrought this change in my feelings. Your ambitions 
appear to me now, as heretofore, monstrous and dispropor- 
tionate. It is rather the society of my sweet sister, the con- 
verse, the instruction, the acquirements I have derived from 
her affectionate care, that have placed me in a false position. 
My soul is no longer able to find its happiness in the society 
of the rude and simple-minded, who are my own people; 
while the lowness of my birth equally disqualifies me for 
any higher alliance. The nobles, with one of whom you 
VOL. i. — 16 * 


178 


ANGO, OR THE 


urge me to wed, would one day or other afflict me by 
some contumelious expression ; while 1, in some hasty mo- 
ment, might b.e moved to reproach the want of breeding and 
information of him who was my childhood’s playmate, and 
whom I long purposed should become my husband. All 
these harassments will cease when, devoted to the service of 
God, I pass my future days between the charitable 
duties undertaken by the sisters of Mary, and the studies 
to which the rules of the order permit me to apply my 
leisure.” 

Such were the explanations given by Genevieve to her 
family ; and Ango and his wife were too well acquainted 
with the sternness of her resolution, to have any hope of 
swaying her from her purpose, it w.as some comfort that 
she had chosen the least rigorous of the orders established 
in Normandy, which sanctioned their admittance to her 
presence on days set apart for the purpose ; and, as the 
convent was within view of the magnificent habitation in 
which Ango now abided, cr rather reigned like a prince, 
scarcely a week elapsed but one of her kindred, in flowing 
robes of earthly pride, sat beside the poor nun in her cell 
of humiliation. 

Dear to her heart, even in its abstraction from the things 
of this world, were those continued tokens of affection ; 
more especially, now that Ango’s young son was advancing 
in boyhood; and when, accompanied only by the preceptor, 
who, being alien to the recluse, was forced to leave him on 
the threshold of the cloister, young Theodore came to visit 
her, apparently intent upon seeking from her lips lessons of 
wisdom likely to afford an antidote to the evil influences 
with w hich pride and ostentation had surrounded his infancy, 
Sister Genevieve’s heart expanded W'ith joy. The boy 
seemed to flee to the counsels of the mild and tranquil nun, 
as a refuge from the vain tumults of his father’s house. The 
happiest day of his w eek was that on which he w'as ferried 
across the harbor, and conducted to the humble portal of 
the sisters of St. Mary. How strange a contrast to the 
marble vestibule, thronged with menials wearing the liveries 
and cognizance of Ango, through which he had to pass on 
his return ! 

Soon, however, Sister Genevieve began to fear that her 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


179 


growing influence over her nephew was distasteful to his 
mother ; for already her highborn sister-in-law was relaxing 
in her attentions to the recluse. More than a month some- 
times elapsed between her visits; but how was it to be 
wondered at ? The nun, in her gentle forbearance, remind- 
ed hersell how hard it must be to Bianca to tear herself from 
her luxurious tiring-chamber, with its velvet hangings, 
Venetian mirrors set in frames of silver filigree, carpets of 
rich tapestry, and ceilings of carved and emblazoned oak, to 
descend into the damp and naked cell of a convent ! She 
fancied she could behold Bianca seated by her bower-wind- 
ow, while two girls of Mozambique (brought over by one of 
Ango’s captains as a tribute to his lady and mistress) stood 
behind her chair, to pick up the book or tapestry-needle she 
might let fall, or, in the summer heats, to raise a gentle air 
around her with their Indian fans. She fancied she saw her 
at the banquet table, with minstrels and trouveres in atten- 
dance, according to the custom of the house singing strains 
in homage to her beauty. She fancied she saw her before 
her stately toilet-table, while goldsmiths, summoned from 
Paris by Ango, tried upon her velvet bodice or damasked 
coif the effect of certain sparkling clasps of diamonds and 
rubies, which her husband had bespoken as toys to amuse 
her leisure. 

“ Pray Heaven so much prosperity harden not her heart!” 
was the secret ejaculation of Sister Genevieve. “ Of all 
the trials which beset our mortal nature, the ordeal of riches 
and greatness is the most perilous to salvation. It is easier 
for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye, than for persons 
endowed like Ango and his wife to enter into the kingdom 
of heaven !” 

With one evidence of her brother’s growing riches and 
growing pride, the poor nun was at present unacquainted. 
Having purchased from the ruined family of Longueil their 
| beautiful signiory of Varengeville, on the shore, two leagues 
below Dieppe, Ango had demolished the ruinous old castle, 
the residence, in more troublous times, of the lords of the 
soil ; and was erecting, in its stead, a fair manor-house of 
stone and marble, after the manner of the Italian villas he 
had admired in his travels ; to execute the frescos and 
sculptures for which he had brought sculptors from Rome ; 


ISO 


ANGO, OR THE 


not satisfied with the artists who were executing, at Fontain- 
bleau and St. Germain en Laye, for his sovereign lord the 
King, those fine works which have come down to our time. 
Ango, the Dieppois, chose that the inspired country of his 
lovely wife should furnish the devices and adornings of a 
dwelling which was to be bestowed upon her as a dower- 
house for her especial use. The incongruity of these refine- 
ments with a rude Norman village, overgrown with huge 
timber-trees, and overrun by luxuriant vegetation, so that no 
cool refreshment of marble or fountains was needed as in 
the burning climate of the Sicilies, did not occur to him. it 
was the vain display of magnificence to which he aspired, 
rather than the comfort of the future dwellers at Varenge- 
ville. 

As yet, Ango had said nothing to his sister of his new 
manor-house ; partly from motives of delicacy, because he 
suspected that, had Genevieve consented to ally herself 
with the nobility to her native province, of all the suitors for 
her hand, the unfortunate Baron de Longueil would have 
been the object of her preference ; and partly because he 
feared that her simple taste would reprove the newfangled- 
ness of his notions. But the boy Theodore told all. En- 
chanted with the beauty of the ancient groves and new 
gardens of Varengeville, he loved to describe to his aunt the 
progress of the foreign artists, and the narratives of the mar- 
vels of Italy, of which his familiarity with his mother’s 
language enabled him to converse with the strangers. 

“ Be not deceived,” w'as the reply of the nun ; “ the 
things you tell of, which Ango would fain naturalize in Nor- 
mandy, are unsuitable to our boisterous province. These 
images of heathen deities, planted on pedestals among 
thickets of flowers, may be appropriate in a climate where 
Scarcely a gentle breeze disturbs the ethereal tranquillity of 
the spot, and the landscape is as a temple consecrated to 
Divine nature. But here, amid our ocean tempests, when, 
on awaking in the morning, we find dwellings swept away 
by the raging of midnight winds which in the evening were 
left steadfast and secure, what rational being would set up, 
on slender pedestals, vases and statues to be overthrown ? 
These painted frescos of Varengeville, which artists have 
travelled thousands of leagues to create, must soon be en- 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


181 


crusted with mildew, the spontaneous growth of our humid 
climate ; and scornful men will point the finger thereat, and 
deride the short-sightedness of Ango. As well attempt to 
cultivate the vines of Gascony upon our cliffs, as naturalize 
the vilieggiatura of a Sicilian atmosphere on our coast.” 

loung Theodore listened gravely to the arguments of the 
nun. The pleasure he had hitherto taken in the decoration 
of his father’s noble manor, was moderated by this exposition 
of the unfitness of things apparent at Varengeville : nor was 
th is the only point on which the lessons of Sister Genevieve 
countervailed those of the parents of the boy. Bianca, 
elevated by her husband’s eminence, as chief citizen of 
Dieppe and master of a vast armament of privateers, to a 
condition even more distinguished than that of the daughter 
of a Neapolitan noble, having resumed her early habits of 
arrogance, failed not to instil into her son the notion that, 
on his mother’s side, he was come of a princely house ; and 
that, by following up the enterprises and courtiership of his 
father, he might in time achieve, in his own person, the 
honours of nobility ; while the nun, at once humble and 
high-minded, bad him hold himself above such empty dis- 
tinctions, and regard mere opulence as a treasure entrusted 
to his stewardship for the benefit of his fellow-creatures, and 
the honour of God. 

It was her delight to perceive that the learning and ac- 
complishments instilled into her nephew, by the professors 

enlisted in Ango’s service, served to enlighten and strengthen 
© > © © 

the mind of the promising youth, without hardening his 
heart. All her earthly hope was in Theodore. Her brother 
she looked upon as carried away by the vastness of his am- 
bitions ; a vessel freighted beyond its strength, and in hour- 
ly peril of shipwreck. 

Such was the frame of her mind when, just as Theodore 
attained the eve of his eighteenth year, Ango, who now 
rarely visited his sister, made his appearance one evening in 
her cell. Splendid as were now his habits and his garb, 
Genevieve was startled when, on raising her eyes from the 
work in which she was engaged (a stole, embroidered with 
chain needlework, for the service of the altar of St. Remy,) 
she saw the stately citizen standing beside her, wearing, in a 
belt of gold, a dagger, the hilt of which was studded with 


182 


ANGO, OR THE 


jewels. A thought glanced into Genevieve’s mind of their 
poor humble father, who, in the extremity of his wealth, had 
aspired to nothing beyond the leathern belt and doublet of 
broad blue cloth, peculiar to the burghers of Dieppe. Silk, 
velvet, or brocade, he would have treated as effeminate 
trivialities, unworthy the notice of a man of the sea. 

“ Whither comest thou, so bravely attired?” said the nun 
her eyes having fallen again upon her work, so that she had 
not space to notice that the joyous and triumphant expres- 
sion of her brother’s countenance was more than in accord- 
ance with the brilliancy of his garments. 

“ From the Town-Council,” replied Ango, taking a seat 
beside her; a stool of simple deal, differing strangely from 
the rich cushions of Genoa velvet, forming his habitual 
resting-place. 

“ And how long hath it been the custom for the Town- 
Council of this poor port of Dieppe to deliberate in robes 
and trappings of velvet and jewels, touching the price of 
cod-fish or the duty upon herrings?” — demanded Sister 
Genevieve, unable to repress some degree of vexation at the 
unseemly pomps and vanities displayed by her brother. 

“ We met upon no such skipperlike matters,” cried Ango, 
too much engrossed in his self-satisfaction to take note of 
her unwonted bitterness; “ but fora discussion that ought 
to have penetrated with joy the dull cold walls of the very 
prison thou hast chosen for thyself. The King, dear sister, 
the King is about to visit Dieppe !” 

“ Heaven send him a happy journey !” replied Genevieve, 
devoutly crossing herself; “and incline his royal heart, 
when here, to lend that aid to the charitable and religious 
institutions of the city, of which they stand so greatly in 
need.” 

Ango’s brow darkened. It was his pleasure to be thought 
a munificent patron of the institutions of Dieppe ; and, till 
engrossed by the progress of his manor and the vastness of 
his speculations, had, in truth, been held so by the world. 

“ If the convent of the sisters of St. Mary stand in need 
of benefactions,” said he, haughtily, “ there are those among 
the burghers of the city both able and willing to relieve its 
necessities, without need of troubling our lord the King with 
its petty necessities. Nevertheless, it strikes me that, for a 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


J83 


provincial convent, having moreover, but a single ward for 
the relief of the sick, and a single day of the week set apart 
for doles to the poor, the do-wry brought to its treasury by 
the sister of Ango, might have preserved it from immediate 
want !” 

“ I speak not of this poor house,” replied Genevieve, 
mildly ; “seeing that thanks to thy generosity, it is endow- 
ed with ampler income and higher immunities than any oth- 
er in Dieppe. Nay, with my brother’s leave, I will speak 
of none other, since the subject is distasteful. Say, — when 
comes King Francis to our walls; and with what honors 
will the town welcome so illustrious a guest?” — 

“ With none. The town will do nothing !” replied Ango, 
significantly. 

“ How?” cried Genevieve, reddening under her whimple 
and veil, for shame to think that her native place should be 
dishonored in the eyes of the King. 

“An individual hath already taken upon himself the duty 
of welcoming his Sovereign,” resumed Ango. 

“ Thyself /” replied the nun, exultingly, but with an 
anxious expression of countenance. “ Yet bethink thee, 
Ango, what envyings and heart-burnings thy pretensions to 
so great a distinction will bring upon thee !” 

“ I think of' nought but the glory of standing host to the 
King of France!” cried Ango, with increasing exultation. 
“ I think of nought but to have it said, from frontier to 
frontier, Francis l was prisoner to the Emperor, friend to 
Harry of England, scholar to Bayard, and guest to Ango, — 
Ango the Norman mariner, — Ango the privateer !” 

The name of her father and brother thus proudly pro- 
claimed, excited a transient feeling of triumph in the soul 
of the nun. The next moment, she reproached herself 
with her fault; admitting that, even were Ango’s ambition 
excusable, her vocation forbad all pa rticita tion in his pride. 
But while Genevieve was rebuking herself by inward reci- 
tation of a penitential psalm, Ango proceeded to unfold that his 
house and household were to be placed forthwith at the dispo- 
sal of his Majesty ; how a guard of honor, formed of the crews 
of his vessels then in port, completely armed with brave ac- 
coutrements, was to await the King’s coming a league from 
the town, and attend upon his majesty during his sojourn. 


184 


ANGO, OR THE 


“ My patron, Cardinal d’Amboise, is to be in attendance 
upon the King/’ said he, “ as well as the chief barons and 
seigneurs of the province, betwixt this and Rouen. All 
these will have bed and board under my roof, such as 
they have rarely seen, save under that of the Louvre. On 
the first day of their coming, they will be entertained with 
a gorgeous banquet, and a choice concert of music. On 
the second, my royal guest purposelh to inspect the harbor ; 
and a joust upon the water, performed by my own people, 
will diversify the scene. On the third, being the Sabbath, 
high mass must be performed in the church of St Jacques, 
by my lord the Cardinal Archbishop, assisted by the clergy 
of his pontificate ; and on the fourth, a review of the forces 
will take place in the valley of Arques, crowned by a festi- 
val of fireworks, and other ingenious devices of masquing 
and music, in which the King is said to take especial de- 
light.” 

“ And the cost of these regal entertainments is to be de- 
frayed by thy single self?” demanded Genevieve. 

“ How better mark my sense of gratitude to God for the 
greatness of his bounties, than by testify ing my reverence 
towards the 
proudly. 

“By bestowing the same vast gratuity upon his creatures 
less prosperous,” argued the nun, devoutly crossing herself. 
“The vast outlay thou dost contemplate, would endow an 
hospital — a monastery ; nay, raise from its foundation-stone, 
a cathedral great as the Rouennais church of St. Ouen, in 
honor of thy blessed patron, St. John.” 

“Thou knowest that 1 have already issued instructions | 
for a rich chapel to his honor in my parochial church of St. 
Jacques du Haut Pas, besides ten thousand marks contribut- 
ed to that of St. Remy,” said Ango, drily. “ With respect 
to monasteries and hospitals, it strikes me that the sick and 
the men of religion, are already as well cared for in Dieppe 
as the condition of our city requireth.” 

“ A proof, were proof wanting,” replied Genevieve, 
sternly, “ that it is thine own glory, and not the glory of 
God, thou are seeking to advance, in thine intended hom- 
age to the King of France.” 

“ By propitiating his Majesty with a noble welcome,” 


anointed of his creatures ?” replied Ango, 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


185 


observed Ango, evading the question, “ I may haply secure 
for the port and harbor of Dieppe those royal favors which 
have raised Havre du Grace, Nantes, and La Rochelle, to 
their present high prosperity.” 

“Say, rather, that thou mayst peradventure secure to 
thyself tokens of royal favor in thy personal ennoblement,” 
said the nun ; for after such things, O my brother! doth 
thine heart aspire far more than after the self-contentment 
of virtue.” 

“ I know not why the love of virtue should inspire con- 
tempt for the high condition and estate in which virtue is 
most memorably practised,” retorted Ango. “ 1 do not 
deny that I would fain elevate my son to the rank in life of 
his maternal ancestors. The stateliest tree hath its root;- 
and proud were I to plant an acorn from which the sapling 
may send forth branches to flourish in after ages, and over- 
shadow the earth. But enough of my projects. When 
from the Uplfry of their temple the holy sisters of St. Mary 
look down upon the pageants with which, by sea and land, 
Ango rejoiceth to recreate the eyes of his Sovereign, be it 
the holy task, beloved Genevieve, to breathe an orison for 
thy brother, that his soul be not unworthily elated by the 
honors of the day.” 

Sister Genevieve waited not the coming of the King to 
fulfil the behest of her brother. Daily, hourly, did she 
weary Heaven with intercessions in behalf of Ango ; as a 
man who, placing his delight and glory in tlie things of the 
world, was more especially at the mercy of the sports and 
gusts of fortune. 

o 


PART III. 

The dwelling-house of Ango,* on the port of Dieppe 
(not far from that ancient tower whose venerable walls, still 

* In 1647, Cardinal Barderini, on visiting the House of Ango with 
the Peres de l’Oratoire, observed — “ JVunquam vidi domum ligneam 
pulchrioram 

VOL. i — 17 


186 


ANGO, OR THE 


standing, attest the valor of the English assailants, under 
their captain, the renowned John Talbot,) albeit fashioned, 
according to the fashion of the time and country, of wood 
alone, was of surpassing magnificence. The facades to- 
wards both the sea and the gardens, and the courts of the 
double quadrangle, were exclusively of oak, carved with the 
utmost skill in devices, representing the fables of iEsop, 
and striking episodes in the history of Normandy. Around 
the state floor, ran an overhanging balcony, commanding, 
on one side, extensive views of the ocean on the other, of 
the rich valley of Arques ; and into the terrace, or balcony, 
opened the wide windows of a fine saloon and noble gallery, 
hung with stained leather, with ceilings and wainscoting 
carved and gilt, and enchased pictures of the Italian mas- 
ters. In these magnificent apartments, of which the floors 
were inlaid with rare Indian wood susceptible of the highest 
polish, were displayed musical instruments of the most ex- 
quisite workmanship, chalices and goblets of agate and 
crystal, and ebony cabinets containing cameos and medals of 
immense value. 

On dismounting at the gate of a rich burgher of Dieppe, 
on whom he was to confer the honor of becoming his guest. 
Francis I received with grateful courtesy, the obsequious 
homage of Ango ; but when, having traversed the hall, and 
ascended the carved staircase on footcloths of scarlet velvet 
of Genoa, his Majesty reached the gallery, where he beheld, 
for the first time, the productions of Leonardo da Vinci, he 
was silent with surprise. A sentiment almost resembling 
pique against so luxurious a subject, seemed to render him 
insensible to the laborious efforts of his host. Nevertheless, 
on entering the saloon, where the Lady Bianca rose from 
the chair of state at his approach, and with an air of mingled 
dignity and humbleness, sank upon her knee to mark the 
cession of her place to her royal visitor, gallantry suspended 
every other feeling ; and, hastening towards her to raise her 
from the ground, he imprinted, in the movement, a respect- 
ful kiss upon her pale and lofty forehead, and signified to 
Ango that of all the jewels and chef-d’oeuvres contained in 
his house, the fairest was before him. By his royal will, the 
wife of Ango took her seat at his right hand during the 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


187 


banquet that was now magnificently served up before the 
King. 

“ The name of Pavia hath ill-inclined me towards all 
that reminds me of Italy,” said Francis, at the close of a 
feast graced with the rarest viands and most delicate wines 
(addressing himself to Cardinal d’Amboise, who was honored 
with a place at his royal table ;) “ nevertheless, this day, 
my mind seems fated to receive its most pleasurable impres- 
sions from objects imported into my kingdom from my royal 
mother’s native country. First, a lady hostess, whose 
graces of person and deportment would shed lustre upon the 
Louvre ; secondly, pictures of such moving excellence that 
I could loiter away weeks in contemplation before them ; 
and, lastly, these goblets and salvers, whose chasing as far 
exceeds the art evinced by my clumsy goldsmiths of Paris, 
as the rich pastures of the valley of Arques, yonder, ex- 
ceed the sandy plain of Crenelle. Cellini, didst thou call 
him ?” pursued the King, addressing himself to the delighted 
An go. 

“ Benvenuto Cellini, Sire,” replied the burgher, who 
was in humble attendance behind the royal chair. 

“ l pray you, Master Ango, have the fellow written to,” 
resumed the King ; “ I must have him forthwith complete 
a cupboard of plate for the private apartments of my palace 
of Fontainbleau. Let him hasten to France. 1 will no 
longer allow so choice an artist to remain obscure.” 

“ I crave your Majesty’s pardon, in presuming to assert 
that the name of Benvenuto Cellini is already illustrious,” 
replied Ango, bending one knee as he tendered anew to the 
King, a richly embossed goblet of ivory and gold, contain- 
ing rare wine of Cyprus. “ The cunning goldsmith is of 
the household of the Duke of Tuscany ; and may not. for 
his life, quit Italy. It was only by vast bribery and con- 
tinual entreaty, that I procured from Master Benvenuto his 
acceptation of my commission for the execution, at by-hours 
and by stealth, of the buffet of which your Majesty deigns 
to express such high commendation.” 

A smile stole upon the handsome lip of Francis, at the 
idea that a subject of his kingdom, a burgher of his poor 
town of Dieppe, should affect to treat, as unattainable to 
his Sovereign, the object he had overmastered 1 He prom- 


188 


ANGO, OR THE 


ised himself in silence to treat with Master Cellini, forthwith, 
through the intervention of one of his diplomatic agents of 
Italy, rather than through that of the overweening captain 
of privateers; little witting that the eccentric sculptor, the 
spoiled child of pontiffs and sovereigns, was still more diffi- 
cult to deal with than the bold and ambitious Ango. 

On the day following his arrival, Francis was roused, soon 
after sunrise, by strains of exquisite music, from mistrels 
posted in the gardens beneath the royal lodging ; for Ango, 
desirous that his illustrious guest should behold, under its 
fairest aspect, the harbor of the town that courted his favor, 
would not (even to prolong the slumber of Francis, in the 
right regal couch prepared for his repose) forfeit the occa- 
sion of the morning-tide, which was now rippling at high 
mark in summer waves of glassy green, against the granite 
coping of the quays. 

“ The weather keeps faith with us, my courteous host,” 
cried his Majesty, when, on the completion of the royal toi- 
let, Ango kneeled humbly at his feet to offer the morning 
draught of the King ; together with a manchet of fair white 
bread, served in a goblet and salver of gold, more richly 
sculptured than those which had attracted his admiration 
the preceeding day. “ A fairer day could not have pros- 
pered my design of familiarizing myself with a new element. 
Let us take water, I beseech you, while the tide holds to 
favor our marine adventures.” 

Had Ango found space to glance round the circle of cour- 
tiers, who had accompanied the King upon his expedition to 
review the newly-raised legions of Normandy, he would 
have admired to see many a warlike cheek was pale at the 
mere idea of embarkation ; so little are the French habitua- 
ted to tile maritime pursuits to w'hich the English are from 
childhood accustomed. But the Dieppois was too deeply 
absorbed in the honor of stepping at the Kings right hand 
through his own gorgeous apartments, and down his embla- 
zoned staircase of state, to have heed of the weaknesses of 
his companions. 

The first circumstance that diverted his attention, was a 
sudden exclamation of delight from the lips of the King, on 
emerging from the threshhold ; facing which, towards the 
harbor, a triumphal arch of great beauty and magnificence 


merchant prince. 


189 


(previously prepared) had been erected in the course of the 
night, adorned with pictures and bas-reliefs, commemorating 
the chivalrous triumphs of the royal visitor ! 

“ Mart de Dieu, Sir Ango !” cried Francis, his cheek 
flushing with pride and pleasure, “ this is truly a princely 
token of homage ! Many of royal blood might take lesson 
of my trusty merchant of Dieppe in the noble art of hospi- 
tality !” 

Ango, who, cap in hand, was escorting the royal cortege 
to the shore, had soon the further gratification of beholding 
his Sovereign’s eye rest with wonder and admiration upon a 
flotilla of six elegant galleys, nobly . adorned and sculptured 
for the occasion, bearing the banner of France, and on the 
prow the initials of John Ango ; built at his sole cost, in 
his private dockyard, for the purpose of doing honor to the 
visit of his Sovereign. As the little fleet with its illustrious 
freight, issued from the harbor and put out to sea, the armed 
vessels of Ango, lying at anchor to the number of sixteen, 
sent forth a thundering salute to their Lord and King, an- 
swered by shouts and acclamations from thousands lining 
the shore towards the Point d’Ailly ; the whole population 
of the district having poured forth to gaze upon their Prince. 
Cries of “ Long live the King!” “ Vive Francois 1 !” 
“ Vive Ango!” resounded along the cliffs of Normandy. 

From the humble belfry of the sisters of St. Mary, another 
prayer ascended at that moment of triumph, to the Tribunal 
of Grace. Sister Genevieve, leaning against the parapet, 
which commanded a view of the ocean and the gallant 
convoy whose gay pennons streamed in the breeze, was un- 
able to repress an exclamation of “ Vive Ango /” — -adding, 
in a lower voice, “and grant him strength, O Lord! to bear 
with humility, this fearful load of greatness.” 

Ango’s honours, however, ripe as they seemed, were even 
that very day destined to unhoped for augmentation. The 
Lady Bianca, as from the balcony of her golden gallery she 
watched the manoeuvring of the galleys, and after several 
hours’ excursion along the coast their return to the harbour, 
was startled by the hurried gallop ol a horseman, who, on 
arriving at her gate, she recognised by the golden greyhound 
in his cap, as a pursuivant, or royal courier, bringing des- 
patches from the capital. Such a messenger had already 

_ i ~i* 


190 


ANGO, OR THE 


made his appearance, in Dieppe, to notify to Ango, the ar- 
rival of the King. What was this new courier to announce 
to F rancis ? — 

As the galleys entered the harbour, piloted by the Royal 
Francis (the vessel fitted up exclusively for the King), the 
wife of Ango observed that the pursuivant, though way- 
worn and travel-stained, persisted in approaching within the 
lines formed by the burgher-guard of Dieppe on either side 
the arch of Triumph ; as if intent upon obtaining access to 
Francis the moment of his arrival, and previous to his re- 
entering the house of Ango. An inexplicable emotion took 
possession of her bosom. She could not but fancy that the 
arrival of the confidential courier, on whom her husband had 
bestowed a princely gratuity for the good tidings of which 
he was formerly the bearer, imported further good to Ango. 

Again did the acclamations of the gay multitude assembled 
along the quay and lining the windows and balconies of 
every house within view, rend the summer air with their 
joyous echos ; so that the music of the minstrels, greeting 
the return of the King, could scarcely be heard for the cries 
and vivats of the throng. Still, Bianca’s eyes remained in- 
tently fixed upon the royal galley. She saw that Francis 
(while, removing his plumed cap from his noble brow, he 
bowed low and gracefully, in acknowledgment of the saluta- 
tions of the fair Dieppoises) had caught sight of his messen- 
ger ; and that the moment the King set foot on the quay, 
his first movement was to extend his hand to receive the 
despatches of which he seemed to know his pursuivant to be 
the bearer. At such a distance, it was impossible for the 
anxious lady to read the expression of the King’s counte- 
nance as he perused the documents placed before him ; but 
while, in trembling silence, she stood viewing the scene, 
she saw the King (having completed the perusal of the 
scroll) beckon towards himthe son of his host; and was lost 
in amazement to behold young Theodore, after kneeling a 
moment at the feet of his Sovereign, repeat, in presence of 
the thousands assembled, the same ceremony towards his 
father. Again, shouts arose from the people, of w hich 
Bianca was unable to interpret the meaning. Her eyes 
were dim with tears as she gazed upon the graceful figure of 
her son, who rose from his knee and stood beside his father, 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


191 


face to face with the sovereign prince on whose brilliant 
accoutrements the evening sun was shedding its refulgent 
brightness. She beheld only those three — the King — 
Theodore — Ango ; — her sovereign, her son, her husband ! 

Soon, however, officious friends thronged in to prepare 
her for the intelligence she was about to receive from the 
lips of Francis. The scroll of parchment she had seen de- 
livered by his Majesty to the hands of his munificent host, 
contained letters-patent of nobility, constituting the burgher 
Ango and his heirs forever, Viscounts of the kingdom of 
France 1 

But even this was not all. The recent death of the Sieur 
de Manroy having left vacant the government of Dieppe, in 
the hearing of the whole population, Francis 1. called upon 
the municipality of the town to do homage to his representa- 
tive, Viscount Ango, as Captain Commandment of the 
Castle and Garrison of Dieppe! 


PART IV. 

The lowliness of gratitude with which these royal favours 
were acknowledged, served to cement the good-will subsist- 
ing between the Sovereign and his subject. Scarcely had 
winter re-assembled the courtiers of Paris under the groined 
roofs of the Louvre, when the Viscount and his lovely lady 
were among the favoured guests ol the King ; — and Bianca, 
of whom such scenes were the natural atmosphere, had the 
gratification of displaying the rich jewels and Oriental stuffs, 
lavished upon her by her husband, in rivalship with the 
splendours of the royal favourite, Diane de Poitiers, at that 
moment in the zenith of her charms. 

It was whispered, however, among the courtiers, that it 
was neither to execute the registries of his patent ol nobility, 
nor even to figure in the pageants of the court, that Ango 
visited the capital. The rich burgher had long acted as 
auditor to the Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen, and by pru- 
dent management, doubled the revenues of his see ; and it 


192 


ANGO, OR THE 


was now surmised that Francis himself', whose wars had ex- 
hausted his treasury in the earlier portion of his reign, was 
fain to mortgage to the Governor of Dieppe, in exchange for 
a loan of considerable amount, his crown lands in Normandy 
and the adjacent province. 

Certain it was, that though Ango was known to have 
claimed a military escort for the transport of a considerable 
treasure to the capital, the troop was at once dismissed in 
Paris : the Lady Bianca’s litter being escorted, on their 
return to Dieppe, by his own people only. Y et so far from 
his revenues being diminished by this transfer of property, 
never had Ango’s speculations been bolder, or his habits 
more magnificent, than during the ensuing year. Under his 
government, the castle and fortifications underwent complete 
reparation ; the harbor and jetty were improved ; and the 
city gates restored and crowned with towers. The beauti- 
fully sculptured treasury and winding staircase, still extant, 
in the Church of St. Jacques du Haut Pas, were a tribute 
from the munificence of Ango ; and the Chapel of St. John, 
in that of St. Remy, was dedicated to his patron saint, by 
the new Viscount. On every side, were to be seen proofs 
of his liberal zeal for the benefit of his native city. It 
sufficed for Ango to address a petition to the King, for his 
desires and those of his fellow-townsmen to be granted ; the 
importance of such a subject being thoroughly appreciated 
by Francis, who had been right glad to seek assistance from 
Ango, in arming the Channel fleet equipped at Havre, 
Honfleur, and Dieppe, to prevent the English from fortifying 
the town of Boulogne. For the Governor of Dieppe was 
no longer the petty trader, the owner of a poor squadron of 
merchant vessels, but the haughty master of twenty sloops 
of war ! More than once, the crews of his merchantmen, 
trading with the Moluccas and the coast of Malabar, had 
come to serious disputes with the Spanish, Flemish, and 
above all, the Portuguese settlers, jealous of his pretensions ; 
and in several severe engagements with foreign frigates, the 
star of Ango had prevailed, and his people come off vic- 
torious. 

On one disastrous occasion, however, a vessel belonging 
to one of his fleets, having been separated, by stress° o°f 
weather, from her convoy, fell into the hands of the Portu- 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


193 


guese, already incensed against the noble mariner of Dieppe 
by former successes ; when the crew was inhumanly mas- 
sacred, and the vessel, with its rich cargo, steered in triumph 
into the Tagus. 

Furious at his loss, and still more irritated by the insult 
which he had the arrogance to conceive was offered to his 
flag ; Ango swore to be revenged ; and, having issued orders 
for the arming of his ten finest vessels, with eight others of 
inferior size, and, in addition to their crews, about a thousand 
men, mercenaries attached to his service, he prepared to 
make a descent upon the coast of Portugal, and retaliate the 
injury he had sustained. 

The expedition sailed ; and the first intelligence of its 
safe arrival in the Tagus brought also to the delighted Ango 
news of perfect success. Several villages on the banks of 
the Tagus had been ravaged and destroyed by his men ; 
and the conflagration of one of these, within a league of Lis- 
bon, struck terror into the inhabitants, unable to comprehend 
such an attack on the part of Frenchmen, the allies of their 
King. 

A still greater panic, however, was excited, when several 
valuable Indiamen, falling in with Ango’s vessels, which 
were cruising at the mouth of the harbour, were instantly 
captured. Finable to believe such an exploit the work of 
privateers, the Portuguese government, regarding it as a 
declaration of hostilities on the part of Francis 1, despatched 
a deputation to the palace of Chambord, where the King 
was residing, to demand the cause of so gross a violation of 
international law. 

For some time, the King of France attached little faith to 
the representations of these delegates. Satisfied that no 
hostile instructions had been issued by his Admiralty, and 
that, without such orders, the boldest captain of his fleet 
would not, on any provocation, proceed to acts of violence, 
he attempted to persuade the Count d’Olivares, and the 
noble gentlemen by whom he was accompanied, that the 
whole statement originated in misconception. On learning, 
however, from the Ambassador-Extraordinary, that the flag 
under which these outrages were committed, bore for ensign 
and device, a sphere, or terrestrial globe, surmounted by a 
crucifix, with the legend — <£ Spes men Dens, a juventute 


194 


ANGO, OR THE 


mea ,” Francis recognised at once the blazon of the Govern- 
or of Dieppe. 

“ ’Tis Ango who hath taken this quarrel on his hand l” 
cried the King, turning towards his astonished courtiers. 
“ ’Tis Ango who hath declared war against the King of 
Portugal !” — 

Count d’Olivares, with an obsequious obeisance, ventured 
to demand of his Majesty in what quarter of the world the 
dominions of the said King Ango might be situated ; and, 
had not a violent burst of laughter from the King testified to 
the assembled courtiers, that his Majesty was disposed to 
make the arrogance of the Dieppois captain a matter of 
merriment, they were prepared to treat the presumption of 
their countrvman as a treasonous offence against the crown. 

“Be pleased to inform my good brother of Portugal,” 
said the King, perceiving the ambassadors to be both as- 
tonished and mortified by his mirth, “ that I trust nothing 
will in future occur to disturb the pacific relations now hap- 
pily established between Portugal and France. Assure him 
that it is not I who have insulted his flag and ravaged his 
territories, but a captain of one of my ports ; a man who, 
being rich and independent as a prince, seems disposed to 
usurp royal authority. Or rather, if my advice have any 
weight, ere ye return to Lisbon, proceed at once to Dieppe, 
whereof this bold man is commandant, and make such 
terms with him as ye may. Trust me, gentlemen, Ango is 
not a man to be trifled with !” 

On t his hint, Count d’Olivares and his suit withdrew 
from Cb ambord ; while Ango, premonished of their arrival 
and errand by a private message from the King, prepared 
in haste to receive them with regal magnificence, at Varen- 
geville ; and the Portugues nobles are said to have asserted, 
on their return to Lisbon, that the mode of Francis’s Court 
at Chambord was rude and insignificant, compared with that 
of A ngo the Dieppois, in his manor ; more especially when, 
after having entertained them right royally, he acceded to 
their entreaty that his fleet should be instantly recalled, 
conditioning only that, for the future, the captains of the 
King of Portugal would evince more respect towards the 
flag of F ranee. 

But though the Portuguese trembling for their oossessions 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


195 


on the coast, and Francis, laboring under heavy obligations to- 
wards his overweenirigsubject, saw fit to submit to his insolent 
aggressions, the fellow-townsmen of Ango, the companions of 
his youth, the witnesses of his growing prosperity, began to 
lose all patience with his assumptions. The Commandant 
of Dieppe had now taken to himself a guard of honor, by 
which he was surrounded whenever he went-abroad, so as to 
be inaccessible to the burghers and captains, his kindred and 
friends ; and established himself as governor in the castle. 
His beautiful dwelling on the harbor was shut up and aban- 
doned ; while, from the towers of the lofty fortress, he exer- 
cised an almost regal authority over the town. Ango’s in- 
dignant fellow-burghers had scarcely patience to be treated 
as subjects, by one whom they had never ceased to regard in 
the light of a prosperous equal. 

On one occasion, the town-council having presumed 
to resist a command issued by the Viscount for the 
indisposition of a new rate of harbor duty, Ango ap- 
peared in person (for the first time since his acces- 
sion of rank) among the notables; and, upon their ventur- 
itig to persist in their resistance, he, who had made war 
with impunity upon kings, proceeded so far as to inflict a 
blow upon Jacques Morel, one of the most active of his op- 
ponents. Ere his cholar had subsided, a missive was 
brought to the fortress, addressed to the Governor, by the 
simple name of “John Ango,” requiring him to visit his 
sister, who was lying sick and infirm in the convent of St. 
Mary. 

“What hast thou done?” — demanded the feeble voice of 
the nun, when Ango, obeying the summons, took his seat 
beside her humble pallet. “ Hast thou not enemies enough 
already, that thou must fain spit upon the beard of the son 
of our father’s friend? — Jacques Morel hath vowed that 
thou shalt atone in dust and ashes the wrong thou hast this 
day dealt him in the fulness of thy pride !” — 
j “ I have chastised the insolence of greater men than an 
I admiral of fishing-smacks,” said Ango, disdainfully. 

I “ The fishing-smacks of Jacques Morel have searched the 
depths of the Gulf of Ormus, and bandied buffets with the 
Atlantic waves,” replied Sister Genevieve. “Such as he is 
to-day, such yesterday was our father. He was our play- 


196 


ANGO, OR THE 

mate too, Ango, arid more than our playmate ; for well 
knowest thou, that but for thy sister’s weakness, he had 
been at this hour thy brother.’’ 

“ It was thyself who chose to break the bond of betroth- 
ment.” replied her brother; “but trust me, hadst thou not 
retreated from the contract, never would I have be- 
stowed my sister’s hand, at the altar, on a petty trader of 
Dieppe !” 

“ Thou mightest, at least, abstain from loading him with 
insult,” persisted Sister Genevieve ; “ less for his sake than 
thine own ; for, thick as are these convent walls, a whisper 
hath already reached mine ear that Jacques Morel vows 
deadly vengeance against thee and thine.” 

“His vengeance be on my head, then,” quoth Ango, with 
a contemptuous smile. “The good castle of Dieppe con- 
taineth dungeons for the correction of evil minds ; and ere 
the soldiers of my garrison would permit this Dieppois chap- 
man to smite a blow against their Governor ” 

“Thy thoughts are too much bent upon deeds of vio- 
lence,” remonstrated the nun. “ Mischief shall hunt the 
violent man; and he who.smiteth with the sword shall per- i 
ish by the sword. But there are other blows, my good 
brother, which may attain even the Commandant of Dieppe. 
Before the tribunals of the law, all men are equal ; and, lo ! 
it is in a court of justice that thou, even thou, the Gov- 
ernor, shall be called upon to render thine account 1” 

“ The Chancellor is my good and noble friend,” observed 
Ango, sternly ; “ the fiscals are my creatures ; the Presi- 
dent of the Tribunal of Commerce holds his appointment 
from my recommendation. I have no fear but that my case 
whatever it be, will meet with gentle dealing.” 

“ If thy cause be a strong one, thou art wise to invoke jus- 
tice,” said Sister Genevieve, almost re-assured by bis cold- 
ness. “Nevertheless, should the Sire Morel’s accusation 
prove a just one, viz., that being, in the year of Grace 1524, 
thy partner in divers expeditions and undertakings, thou hast 
frustrated him of his lawful share of certain prizes and cap- 
tures effected by vessels armed under your joint authority 

and at your united cost ” 

“ ’Tis false as hell !” cried Ango, furiously. 

“ Heaven send that the Admirably of Paris (before 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


197 


whom he is about to sue out his process) be of the same 
opinion !” replied his sister, unmoved by his violence. 

“The Admiralty of Paris!” cried Ango, in a tone of 
consternation. 

“Of Paris! — For how, at Dieppe, could Morel have ob- 
tained justice against the Commandant ? The fiscals are, 
as thou didst now asseit, thy creatures, and ” 

“ How knowest thou of Jacques Morel’s intention ?” 
cried Ango, impatiently. “Despite the seeming seclusion 
of this holy house, have the sisters of St. Mary liberty to 
play the gossip with members of the town-council, more 
especially with such as have been of old their suitors and 
servants ?” — 

“ Thou hast forgotten, then, amid the pomps of thy new 
seigneury,” observed his sister, “ that our holy mother, the 
Superior, is sister of Jacques Morel, as I of his adversary? 
Even the interests of her flock have not rendered the good 
abbess insensible to the wrongs of her brother’s house ; and 
lo ! on learning the grievous news that he had been smitten 
on the cheek in full council, by Ango the Governor, the 
venerable woman entreated the prayers of the community 
that God might incline the heart of Jacques Morel to mercy, 
lest he should deal ruin and disgrace on one who had been 
in his time a liberal benefactor to the convent.” . 

“My humble thanks to the pious lady mother,” cried 
Ango bitterly. “ But bid her reserve her prayers for the 
plight of her brother, who may find my armed hand upon 
his neck sooner than he conjectures !” 

“ Say not not so, O my brother !” — was the earnest reply 
of sister Genevieve. “ The King, thy master, by whom 
thine acts, whether for good or evil, have been hitherto up- 
held, lieth on his death-bed. Nor Francis, nor the poor 
nun thy sister, shall ever again stand in the flesh before the 
face of God. Take it, therefore, on the word of a dying 
woman, that, when the breath of the King goeth forth, thy 
prosperity will also wax to an end. The tribunals of the 
kingdom will exult in dealing harshly with one who hath so 
long defied their authority; and, when Francis is in his 
grave, the upstart Viscount will find bitter enemies among 
the nobles of France, and the mariner, John Ango, bitter ac- 
cusers among the burghers, his sometime equals.” 

VOL. i. — 18 


198 


ANGO, OR THE 


“ Enough, enough !” cried the Governor, rising hastily 
from his stool. “ Suffice it that thou hast already bred dis- 
quiet in my household, by inciting my only son to rebellion. 
But for the abetting of thine evil counsel, Theodore Ango 
had been even now the husband of the high and puissant 
Demoiselle d’Amboise, kinswoman of my Lord the Cardi- 
nal, by whose interest 1 were enabled to laugh to scorn the 
tribunals of the Admiralty. Whereas, behold, the youth is 
a wanderer in foreign lands ; and there shall abide till I 
have in writing his promise to resign his idle passion for a 
girl of the people, the plebeian niece of Jacques Morel.” 

“ That writing thou wilt never have ” answered the nun 
with firmness. “ I know my nephew’s heart ; and sooner 
than break the solemn covenant of troth-plight into which 
he hath entered with Isabeau Morel, Theodore will live and 
die an exile. Mine eyes shall behold him no more, my 
lips counsel him no lurthur ; but I die in the solemn 
persuasion that my father’s grandson and representative on 
earth, would renounce all chance of worldly happiness rather 
than be forsworn.” 

A few more weeks, and the passing bell of the convent of 
St. Mary announced that Sister Genevieve had entered into 
her rest. Yet, already her predictions had been partly ac- 
complished. The Commandant of Dieppe was unable 
even to cast his love-offering upon the grave of the poor 
nun, having been summoned to appear before the tribunals 
of his native country for malpractices and felonious deal- 
ing ! The town and garrison were now agitated by the 
most violent commotions. Ango had been removed to Paris 
under an armed escort, that seemed to announce the harsh- 
est intentions towards the accused ; and, notwithstanding the 
favor which his bitter opposition to the Protestant cause in 
Normandy might have been expected to secure from the big- 
oted counsellors of the young King who had succeeded to 
the throne of Francis I, it was rumored that the cause of 
Ango was prejudged. In spite of the eloquence of the 
men of the law engaged in his behalf, the accused was ac- 
cordingly condemned, by a unanimity of voices, to pay, not 
only to Jacques Morel the amount of his demand, but a fine 
of ten thousand marks to the King for breach of commer- 
cial law ; and, in default of payment, to be incarcerated in 
the royal prison of the Petit Chatelet. 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


199 


These exactions, however, heavy as they were, constitu- 
ted the least painful part of Ango’s punishment. Previous 
to the promulgation of his sentence, a successor had been 
appointed to his government of the castle of Dieppe : and 
the new Commandant, a kinsman and partisan of the family 
of Morel, having ejected the household goods and chattels of 
his predecessor, the rich hangings and sculptured cupboards of 
Ango had been seized upon by the populace, and converted 
into a bonfire ; the flames of which, rising from the high 
cliffs beyond the citadel, were apparent as far as the manor 
of Varengeville, and many leagues out at sea. 

Released from prison, after payment of the exorbitant 
charges of his process at law, Ango, broken in health and 
impaired in fortune by his recent calamities, would gladly 
have refrained from returning to the scene of his humilia- 
tion. He saw that the loss of the King, his master, was 
the signal of his ruin. He began to place implicit faith in 
the predictions of the sister now lost to him for ever ; and 
shorn of his beams, reduced to the insignificance of a pri- 
vate station, could scarcely support the idea of confronting 
the scornful looks of his fellow-citizens. Still, the sanguine 
nature of his spirit forbad him to despair. To return to his 
native place was inevitable; since, in speculations connect- 
ed with the harbor, and in land adjoining the town, were 
invested the remains of a fortune shattered by ostentation, 
and reduced by the award of justice ; nor could he refrain 
from flattering himself that, even yet, judicious ventures 
might repair the injuries he had sustained. The star w hich 
had so long prospered his undertakings could not have set 
forever ! — 

On arriving in Normandy, however, the mortified man 
had not courage to re-appear in his place in the towm-coun- 
cil of Dieppe. Secluded in his manor-house, it w'as thence 
he issued instructions to his captains and dock-masters ; and, 
profiting by his absence, new accusations were soon brought 
forward against him in the Assembly of Notables. En- 
I couraged by the success of Jacques Morel, many who had 
hitherto lacked courage to denounce the malefactions of the 
royal favorite, loudly accused him of peculation in his office, 

; as comptroller of the salt and grain duties of the haroor. 

The accounts of the last twenty years were called for 


200 


ANGO, OR THE 


and re-examined, when peculations of so gross a nature be- 
came apparent, that it was clear the whole remaining for- 
tune of Ango would be insufficient to replace the deficit. 
H is houses, bis lands, his noble pictures, his rich plate, be- i 
came the spoil of his enemies; being forfeited to the crown 
by a decree of the fiscal court, and hastily and cruelly 
bought up by the readiest bidders. 

Confined in the miserable prison adjoining the fortress of 
the Pollet, to which, in the plentitude of his power he had 
consigned so many a fellow-citizen, Ango waited in anguish 
of spirit to learn that the last penny of his property had 
been divided, and the period of his punishment expired. 
To die, would have been a blessed escape from the bitter- 
ness of his fate ; but, fallen as he was, he felt it his duty 
as a man to meet the fulness of his destinies. For, lo ! 
Bianca yet lived and looked to him for support. Sick and 
infirm, unable to share his captivity or even to visit him in 
prison, supported by the charity of a former tenant of one 
of his numerous farms, the Lady Bianca despatched daily 
messages to the Pollet, bidding the captive rise superior to 
misfortune, and reminding him that the proofs of tenderness 
he had once lavished on his wife, were poor in account com- 
pared with the sacrifice of living for her sake, amid the cares 
and privations of poverty. And thus, the fond affections 
the origin of his ambition, now served as a talisman to pre- 
serve him from despair. 

Amid the general wreck of his property, the manor of 
Varengeville had been purchased, at an inconsiderable price 
by the rich burgher Jacques Morel ; and his enemy now' 
ruled in his place ! Nevertheless, the chastening hand of 
God had so subdued the haughtiness of Ango, that he re- 
solved, on his deliverance from prison, to take his staff in 
his hand and seek the humble farm in which his afflicted 
partner abided ; albeit from its poor casement the stately 
bowers of Varengeville were painfully visible. 

Had the sentence of Ango included only the forfeiture of 
his fortune, the purpose of Providence had been unfulfilled, 
and the proud man perished in his impenitence. But soli- 
tude had effected wonders — had bowed that stubborn heart 
and broken that ambitious spirit — till, through the fractures, 
religion poured her healing balm, and enabled him to work 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


201 


out his salvation. While communing with himself in 
the silence of his imprisonment, Arigo learned to revile his 
former hardness of heart, his un parental severity towards 
the son whose presence would have been a sustainment in 
his sorrow, his unbrotherly rejection of the counsels of his 
sainted sister. That he had not altogether neglected, in his 
day of prosperity, the cause of the poor and needy, was 
owing to the gentle instigations of Genevieve ; and now, all 
the alleviation of his wretchedness consisted in the remem- 
brance of his faithful service to the church, by sending 
messengers of peace to the savage countries with whose un- 
enlightened children his vessels held traffic, and by endow- 
ing, to perpetuity, religious and charitable foundations for 
the benefit of his native town. 

The happy influence of his sister, still served to soften 
and encourage his afflicted soul. In his dreams, he often- 
times beheld her, crowned with the palms of beatitude, and 
surrounded with the spirits of just men made perfect, bidding 
him submit humbly to the rod of affliction, and trust in the 
mercy of his chastiser. “ Thou hast a loving and duteous 
son who will still yield comfort to thine old age,” seemed 
evermore to issue from the lips of the spirit in bliss ; and 
Ango, who for months past had not dared to turn his 
thoughts towards the banished Theodore, upon whom, at 
parting, he had pronounced a fearful malediction, began to 
call to mind the sweetness of filial love, and to believe that 
Heaven, in its mercy, might yet restore the lost one to his 
arms ! 

“ From those for whose advancement I laboured, I met 
with nought but ingratitude !” faltered Ango, on waking, to 
find his pallet of rushes wet with tears ; “ but, lo ! my 
heart whispers that the youth with whom I have dealt so 
harshly, will render me a blessing for every curse 1” 

It was at noonday that the period of Ango’s imprisonment 
expired ; but so great was the interest excited in his favour 
by the patience with which he had supported his humiliation, 
that he found no difficulty in obtaining leave to shelter him- 
self, till nightfall, within the prison walls, so as to escape 
the insults of the populace. He had signified to his wife, to 
have a horse and guide in attendance before the church of 
St. Marie des Greves at sunset ; and from thence, after per- 
VOL. I — 18 * 


202 


ANGOj OR THE 


forming bis devotions at the shrine of Notre Dame de bon 
Secours, which, in happier times, he had erected in gratitude 
for the deliverance of one of his argosies from shipwreck, he 
took his silent way, in company with the peasant despatched 
by the Lady Bianca, to bring him to her presence. 

It was a chilly autumn evening. Shrill gusts arose at in- 
tervals from the sea, and drove athwart the heights crowned 
by the lonely chapel of Caudecote. The fields were at ; 
rest, save when a solitary bittern rose from the marshy mea- 
dows of the valley of Arques. The boor by whom the un- 
happy man was conducted, plodded onwards in sullen 
taciturnity ; and Ango, dispirited by the anticipation of be- 
holding upon the countenance of his beloved w'ife, the 
ravages effected by misery and privation, could scarcely 
support the sadness of his soul. So often as he had traversed 
that road in all the elation of triumph 1 — So often as he had 
escorted from the Castle of Dieppe to Varengeville the 
litter containing his lovely lady, preceded by a guard of 
honour, and accompanied by the promising youth, his son ! 
And now a sullen peasant was all his escort ; bis hapless 
wife was pining even unto death, the pensioner of the poor ; 
while as to Theodore, even his parents knew not whether he 
still survived, or to what savage shore and cruel straits he 
might have been driven by the persecutions of his father. 

The night drew on to utter darkness; and Ango’s eyes, 
blinded with tears, marked not what road they were taking. 
His soul was back in the mystery of years, — his heart was 
heavy with self-reviling ; and it startled him from a reverie 
as of deep sleep, when the guide, suddenly checking his 
horse, bad him alight, for that his journey was accomplished. 

“ How is t his ?”— -cried Ango, on discerning that, instead 
of the rude gates of a farm house, the man held open the 
postern of a long stone wall. Suspecting an ambush, he 
began to repent having ventured forth unarmed with a stran- 
ger ; when, lo ! the lights from within the edifice that con- 
fronted him, on closing the postern, seemed to revive half 
obliterated recollections ; and a death-like sickness came 
over him when he found that he was standing on the well- 
known lawn of Varengeville. He had been betrayed, then, 
jnto the presence of his enemy ! — 

Already faint with exhaustion, and the excitement of the 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


203 


preceding hours, Ango fell lifeless to the ground. On his 
restoration to consciousness, centuries seemed to have passed 
over his head. He was no longer the same Ango, the same 
humiliated outcast. He was at Varengeville. He was re- 
clining on a bed in his own favourite chamber ; and beside 
him, with her hand fast locked in his, stood Bianca, his own 
beloved Bianca, pale indeed (and with her paleness render- 
ed still more dazzling by the mourning weeds in which she 
was attired), but gentle and affectionate ; more affectionate, 
Jar more gentle than in their days of prosperity. 

In a moment, her thin wasted hand was pressed to his 
lips, while his finger, pointing to the sable dress she wore, 
seemed to indicate the question he had not strength to utter 
— “ Hath the worst befallen us ? — Are we childless ?” — 

Bianca was spared the necessity of reply. Ango per- 
ceived that they were not alone ; and the deep sobs of the 
person who was kneeling at the extremity of the couch, 
indicated that it was one who took part in all their joys and 
sorrows ! — 

“ Where am I, and who is this compassionate stranger?” 
faltered Ango, drawing his wife gently towards him. 

“ You are in your own house, and in presence of your 
exemplary son,” replied Bianca, placing her hand upon the 
head of the youth, whom, with a burst of relieving tears, 
Ango strained in ecstasy to his bosom. 

“ Varengeville is yours again, my beloved father,” ex- 
claimed Theodore, when the first burst of emotion between 
them had subsided. “The tidings of your disasters reached 
me not till a year after the transmission of the sad intelli- 
gence by the father of my affianced wife. Deeply grieved 
that the accusation brought against you in a moment of ex- 
asperation should have proved the origin of such extensive 
and unforeseen misfortunes, our friend armed and despatched 
a vessel to Goa, whence I had already sent tidings to his 
daughter of my safety and faithful affection ; and six months 
ago, I sailed from India on my return, to tender my parents 
the first fruits of my industry and enterprise. To me, hath 
our repentant enemy surrendered this house and its depen- 
dencies ; and henceforth, as heretofore, you are master at 
(Varengeville. I shall but crave harbourage under your 
roof for myself and one gentle being, from whom I beseech 


204 


ANGO, OR THE 


you, my father, no longer to withhold the benediction, 
without which our union were accursed in the eye of 
Heaven !” 

To resist the entreaty of the son thus happily restored to 
him, 'was impossible. It was not without a struggle that 
Ango consented to clasp hands in amity with the man who, 
provoked by repeated insults and aggressions, had undesign- 
edly wrought the double work of vengeance ; nevertheless, 
when he saw with what sincerity of sympathy Morel lent 
his aid to redeem the wreck of his fortunes, and conciliate 
in his behalf the good will of his fellow-citizens, he opened 
his arms to his repentant friend, and consented to efface the 
recollection of all former feuds, by the union of their offs- 
pring. 

Relieved from its cumbrous load of ostentation, the manor 
of Varengeville, as the abode of a family affecting only the 
condition of thriving burghers and faithful subjects of the 
King, became a far happier spot than at the epoch of its 
more ambitious destinies. Ango rejoiced to resign to his 
son the care of his commercial enterprises ; limiting his own 
efforts to the arrangements and cultivation of the delicious 
gardens of the manor, and to the task of retiring, hand in 
hand, with his altered and subdued partner, into the vale of 
years. 

A new generation had arisen round his knees ere he was 
summoned to his great account ; a generation bearing the 
united names of Ango anti Morel, to whom their grandsire’s 
last admonition was couched in nearly the words of the 
dying Wolsey-— 

I charge ye, fling away ambition ; 

By that sin fell the angles. How, then, shall man, 

The image ot his Maker, hope to win by it ? 

The manor-house, now converted into a farm, still retains 
striking traces of the remarkable man by whom it was called 
into existence. Carved medallions of stone, containing 
heraldic devices, heads of negroes and Indians (ihe people 
of the countries with whom the rich burgher of Dieppe held 
traffic,) still adorn the external walls ; as well as portraits of 
Francis I, and Diana of Poitiers. Some vestiges also re- 
main of the far-famed frescos which adorned the chimney- 


MERCHANT PRINCE. 


205 


pieces ; and an open gallery of carved stone, adorned with 
Saxon arches and columns, that might afford a model to 
modern architects. But the full-length portraits of Ango 
and his wife, which, till within a few years, were to be seen 
enchased in the wall above a stone mantle-piece of rich de- 
sign, have wholly disappeared ; as well as the marble slab, 
which, after *its inhumation in 1550, in the Church of St. 
Jacques, in the chapel bearing his name, was placed, by the 
pious care of his son, over the remains of John Ango. 

A far more permanent testimony to the career of Ango, is 
borne in the decline of the town of Dieppe, accounted, before 
his time, one of the most flourishing in France. From the 
moment of his elevation, not' a petty capitalist of the place 
but aspired to the honors of nobility. The high-sounding 
title of “Viscount” Ango, diverted all their thoughts from their 
herring and cod fisheries, and oriental commerce. The pas- 
sion for ennoblement became universal ; and being judicious- 
ly piayed upon by the King’s ministers, ever ready to 
bestow tinsel in exchange for gold, scarcely an independent 
merchant of the burgh but was enabled to sport his hour in 
the glittering courts of royalty. The sole object of the in- 
dustry and the ehrichment of the Dieppois, appeared the 
acquirement of empty honors; and the burghers thus enno- 
bled, soon followed up their madness by consecrating their 
sons to the army and the church, with a view to the acquire- 
ment of further honorary distinctions. Commerce was grad- 
ually neglected, and civic duties were disregarded. 

By degrees, the dockyards of Dieppe fell into decay. 
The port no longer sent forth adventurous fleets to the great 
Indies, or hazarded establishments in the Western hemis- 
phere. Its efficient men were fighting in the civil wars, or 
making co rcg-ees at the Louvre, St. Germains, or Versailles. 
The whole navy of a town which had once exulted in the 
princely privateers of Ango, capable of striking terror into 
kings, became finally reduced to a few fishing-boats, and as 
many ill-built brigs, trading with Norway for her deals, and 
Gascony for her wines.— Even the magnificent churches of 
St. Jacques and St. Remy, lacking the wealthy patrons who 
had loaded them with benefactions, fell into decay ; but this 
defacement is not wholly attributable to the neglect of the 
notables of the city. 


206 ANGO, OR THE MERCHANT PRINCE. 

When, in the zenith of Ango’s pride and prosperity, the 
unfortunate Mary Stuart, about to embark from Dieppe for 
Scotland, condescended to become his guest, the host of 
the young Queen took delight in pointing out to her royal 
notice, that not a man among the two thousand wearing his 
colors, who were ranged along the harbor to do her honor, 
was infected by the doctrines of the new schism of Protes- 
tantism. 

“ Have a care, Master Ango !”■ — was the reply of the 
royal daughter of the house of Guise; “you have unsafe 
neighbors here ; and spiritual infection, God wot, is easily 
extended.” 

The words of Mary of Scotland were more speedily 
verified than might have been expected. Within a year, 
the worship of the Huguenots was established in the town 
of Dieppe ; and within two, John Knox, the Reformer, was 
preaching the new doctrines, unmolested, in the Cathedral 
of St. Remy ! Some years later, one of the severest actions 
of the Leaguers was fought in the adjoining valley of 
Arques, in whose castle Henry IV had taken up his posi- 
tion. 

True to the faith of his ancestors, and schooled by the 
wise lessons of Sister Genevieve and the afflicting example 
of his parents, Ango the younger held with moderation the 
even tenor of his way. By the intermarriage of his only 
daughter with the grand nephew of Jacques Morel, the 
manor of Varengeville was preserved for nearly a century 
in the family ; which, in the reign of Louis XIV, became 
extinct. 

From that period, the lands were divided ; and the house, 
degraded by neglect was converted into a farm. Yet even 
now, when visited by travellers attracted by the beauty of 
its site, and the interest of remains so valuable, as being au- 
thentically characteristic of the domestic architecture of the 
sixteenth century, the manor of Varengeville is pointed out 
by the peasants of the environs, as “The House of 
Ango !” 


end of vol. i 


# 


THE ' 


MAN OF FORTUNE, 




AND 


OTHER TALES. 


BY MRS. GORE, 

AUTHORESS OF ‘ GREVILLE,’ — ‘LOVER AND THE HUSBAND,’ &C. &C. 


♦ 

IN TWO VOLUMES. 


VOL II. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
LEA & BLANCHARD. 
1842 . 








































, 

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' 

. 






- 








■ 





























CONTENTS OF VOL. II 


PAGE. 

''THE QUEEN’S COMFIT MAKER, A LEGEND OF TOT- 
TENHAM CROSS. ..... 5 

THE YOUNG SOLDIER, OR MILITARY DISCIPLINE. . 37 

A LUCKY DOG. ....... 49 

THE FATAL WINDOW. . . . . . . 65 

/THE RAILROAD. . . . . . . . 79 

/THE MARINERS OF THE POLLET. . . . .107 

THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. .... 125 

NEIGHBOR GRAY AND HER DAUGHTER. . . 160 

THE JEWESS. ...... . 191 


♦ 















• • . , . 

.•-'u j M-, : 

. • • • • .you yax;j a 


■ 












i v . 




: 




























THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-xWAKER, 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


“A right noble bequest! — a most Christian devise- 
ment !” exclaimed Master Ebenezer Trackit, the notary of 
Tottenham Cross, folding his hands over his sober doublet,, 
and fixing his eyes contemplatively upon the hugh pewter 
standish, well garnished with goose quills, which had been 
placed before him for the purpose of drawing out heads of 
the testamentary dispositions of Balthazar Sanchez, a wealthy 
retired citizen, whom his enemies called “ the Spanish Jew,” 
and the haughty esquires whose lands bordered upon his 
own, stigmatised with equal contempt as “ Sanchez, the 
comfit-maker.” — “ All and several those excellent lands and 
messuages, situated betwixt the northern bank of the Mosel 
and the farms of Leecroft and Bishopstone,” resumed the 
notary ; “ the same being estimated at the annual fee and 
rent of four hundred marks or upwards, lawful money of the 
realm, to be had in perpetual trust by such person or persons 
as the testator may see fit to appoint, for the erection, entertain- 
ment, and maintenance, of a tenement or tenements, for the 
comfort and refuge of eight individuals of the aged poor of 
the good parish of Tottenham. Such, as 1 conceive, Master 
Balthazar, was the purport of your dictation ?” 

“ Even so. For the endowment of alms-houses to con- 

VOL. II 2 


6 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


tain eight poor people of this parish,” replied his employer, 
from the comfortable easy-cbair in which he sat ensconced ; 
and, as he spoke, the old man turned towards the saturnine 
notary a swarthy but hearty countenance, clearly indicating 
that the indisposition which had determined him to settle 
tbe&isposal of his worldly gear, was of accidental occur- 
rence. Balthazar’s seventy-fifth year found him healthy, 
wealthy, and wise ; easy in mind and body ; and, though 
certain of his neighbors, envious of the old gentleman’s 
worldly prosperity, presumed to infer that the healthfulness 
of his body arose, in a great measure, from there being little 
or no mind to operate upon its condition, it would appear to 
be better fortune than is usually decreed to the lot of fools, 
for the favorite servitor of an intolerant Papist king to have 
laid up, like Balthazar Sanchez, store of riches and honors 
during the ascendancy of her most Protestant Majesty, 
Queen Elizabeth. 

Among these, was his present associate and counsellor, 
Ebenezer Trackit. Nevertheless, albeit the notary had 
heretofore inferred and argued respectfully of his client’s men- 
tal capacities, the charge now entrusted to him to execute, 
somewhat staggered his confidence. 

“ An estate of four hundred marks per annum !” was 
Master Trackit’s mental commentary on the text. “A 
third portion or more of his possessions to be flung away in 
bootless alms upon the ungrateful poor of a foreign nation, 
without so much . as the common return of praise and 
thanksgiving; since it is his will that the benefaction remain 
a nameless dole ; and since, even were the comfit-maker’s 
name blazoned in Roman capitals on the frontal of his alms- 
houses, my mind misgives me that scarcely a knee within 
would bend in supplication for the soul of one whom the 
ragamuffins of Tottenham parish designate in their cups no 
otherwise than 1 the Spanish Jew.’ ” 

“ Are the words set down ?” quoth Master Balthazar, 
his patience at length out wearied by the length of the no- 
tary’s cogitations, from which he rightly argued opposition 
to the purport of his bequest. 

“Methought it w ere safer to allow space for your wor- 
ship’s reflection upon the terms of so munificent an act !” 
replied the notary, twirling his thumbs. » 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


7 


ct Tut, tut !” cried the old Spaniard, impatiently. “ Am 
1, then, so sorry an ass, friend Xrackit, as to entitle you in 
the supposition that I am disposing, on impulse solely (the 
impulse of a hale man suffering from his first twinge of 
bodily pain,) of a third part of my estate ? 1 tell ye no,— 

and again and again, No, Master Notary. For many a 
year ot my past hie, such hath been my settled resolve ; and 
I say unto you once more, — take, — write, — that my last 
will be accomplished.” 

“ Even as you desire, worshipful sir,” replied the 
notary, slowly advancing his hand towards the pewter 
standish ; “ yet am I in duty bound to warn and admonish 
you ’’ 

“ The deuce you are !” interrupted the Spaniard. “ I 
should have surmized that the warnings and admonishments 
wherewith I was favored yestermorn by his pious Rever- 
ence, Eongwind the rector, might suffice for a season.” 

“ The warnings of his Reverence were, in all probability, 
of a spiritual kind, and regarded your soul’s salvation. 
Mine, Master Balthazar, concern your temporal interests, 
and are, consequently, more germane to our present pur- 
pose,” snuffled the lawyer. 

“The time is, l take it, come or coming with me, when 
spiritual and temporal must be so blended in my account that 
no time ought to be lost in disposing of either,” cried the old 
Spaniard. “Nay, good friend, a truce with superfluous 
civilities. I ask no compliments either on my looks or con- 
dition. I know that I am not an ailing man — that 1 carry 
my threescore years and fifteen nimbly enough ; but l also 
know that I have lived my appointed time ; that the loan of 
life apportioned me by my benificent Creator hath reached its 
term ; that the great liability is due ; and the grim bailiff, 
Death, justified in forcing an entrance into my dwelling. 
Let the aged subject of our aged sovereign; therefore, 
hasten to set his house in order ; and for the third and last 
time he bids you, Master Notary, take, write, and record his 
last will.” 

“ Your farm on the northward bank of the Masel, betwixt 
Leecroft and Bishopstone ?” demanded Master Trackit, 
dwelling emphatically on every syllable of the inquiry, and 
leisurely resuming his pen. And this time, as il to avoid 


8 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


further parley or preliminary, the venerable testator con- 
tended himself with and affirmative nod of the head. 

“ It is written l” snuffled Ebenezer, after a minute or two, 
perceiving that his patron, well, or sick, or sorry, was in no 
humor to be further crossed. “It is written, and shall be 
fairly engrossed with the rest for your future signature. 
Meanwhile, assure yourself that so prodigal a donation to 
people nowise akin to you in blood, nature, language, nor 
nation, will be resented, and probably disputed by process 
of law, by those whose affinity entitles them, in right, to 
your inheritance.” 

“ Nowise akin to me in blood ?’’ — cried the comfit-maker, 
turning fiercely upon his confidential adviser. “ Is not 
every son of Adam akin to all the sons of Adam ? — Is it 
not w r rilten by the great Founder of our faith (who, were 
every other evidence of divine nature laid aside, had by that 
alone deserved to be called the Son of God) — is it not writ- 
ten, l say, in the word of Christ, that all men are brethren ? 
and what right have my far-off nephews or nieces to dispute 
with me touching the claims of our common kindred ? — • 
Nowise akin to me in blood, nation, or language, quotha ? — 
Under what governance, 1 pray you, have 1 lived for the 
last half century ? — What language hath breathed in mine 
ears the words of kindness? — What sovereign hath been my 
liege ? — What laws have been my protection ? — Why even 
those of this fair island of Britain, whose air I have respired 
in peace, and whose earth will shortly shelter the dust that 
hath so long burthened her soil ! My home hath been 
among you — my happiness among you. The gold and sil- 
ver I have amassed were earned out of the havings of 
Englishmen. W T ho, therefore, shall dispute the justice which 
would award to these, my benefactors, a fraction of the all I 
owe them ?” 

“ Nevertheless,” replied the notary, unmoved by the old 
man’s generous enthusiasm, “ the law looks with a jealous 
eye upon the testamentary caprices of old age. The 
pretext of heirship is apt to be favored by the grave person- 
ages to whom is intrusted the distribution of property.” 

“ Away with you 1 To no person or personage, howso- 
ever grave, howsoever influential, is intrusted the distribution 
of property, over which the lawful possessor hath exercised 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


9 


the right of either gift or bequest !” exclaimed Balthazar. 
“ My estate came not by inheritance. My estate is no life- 
hold possession, to be derived by my posterity from my an- 
cestry through my transitory enjoyment. This good house 
over my head, — yonder field basking in the sunshine, — are 
mine by no kingly or queenly grant, to some far-off pro- 
genitors, in requital of his partisanship, or in guerdon for his 
servility. I worked for them — 1 drudged for them — I spared 
for them. I bought them, little by little, field by field, 
with the earnings for which I sacrificed my morning rest~ 
my midnight slumber. And are not these mine to dispose 
of? — Think you 1 would have submitted to labor while 
others were sleeping, or to fast when others were feasting, 
save in the certitude that the fruit of my toils was to lie at 
my own absolute disposal ? 

“Perhaps not — probably not; but the grave, Master 
Balthazar, is a gulf that swallowed!) up a man’s thoughts 
and resolves. The coffin-lid closeth over him, and his 
place knoweth him no longer. The jurisprudence of the 
country provided) a mind for those who are no longer ca- 
pable of reflection ; and so soon as you are debarred by 
the great decree of Nature from advocating your own cause, 
my word upon it, the Queen’s learned bench will determine.” 

“ What will it determine ? — That a man may not do 
what he likes with his own ?” — screamed Balthazar, har- 
rassed beyond his patience. 

“ That a man may not do what he likes with his own 
when he hath outlived the faculties that ought to govern his 
likings and mislikings,” replied the notary, calmly taking the 
pen from his ear, and replacing it in the standish, 

“God’s death l Would you assert me to be in my do- 
tage? — would you declare me non compos mentis ?” — .vocif- 
erated the the old Spaniard, while his brow contracted, and 
his lips grew livid with rage. 

“ Would 1 assert ? — -would I declare ? — Heaven’s mercy 
and justice forbid 1” — replied Master Ebenezer, in a tone of 
deprecation. “ But what are my poor assertions to the* pur- 
pose — more especially while your worshipful self is here in 
the flesh, to prove vour own ludieity of intellect ? No, 
Master Balthazar ! — It is when the bell hath tolled, and the 
stone been rolled to the mouth of the sepulchre, that thosQ 
VOL. II. — 2* 


]0 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


who come after you will, perforce of bribery or persuasion, 
probably induce such evidence of singularity ol manners 
and customs, as would assuredly determine any court of 
justice in the kingdom to set aside the will which you are 
now troubling yourself to dictate to my humble transcrip- 
tion.” 

“Set aside, on plea of aberration of intellect, a will ex- 
pressly setting forth, in the preamble, that J, Balthazar 
Sanchez, native of the kingdom of Castile, some time com- 
fit-maker to his most Catholic Majesty, Don Philip II, and 
now resident in the parish of Tottenham Cross, by London, 
being in a sound state of body and mind, do give and be- 
queath — I say, Master Notary, being in a sound state of 
body and mind — nn a sound state of body and mind ; — is it 
not so set down ?” 

“It is,” replied Ebenezer, somewhat overawed by his ve- 
hemence. “ Nevertheless, it were no difficult matter to 
prove, good sir,” he continued, taking advantage of the old 
Spaniard’s loss of breath, “that, on the 6th day of June, in 
the year of Grace 1601, wherein you are pleased thus 
to record the soundness of your body and mind, the said 
body had been, for the first time in your mortal life, visited 
by indications of no less fatal a distemper than paralysis of 
the lower limbs !” 

“ ’Tis false 1” cried Balthazar, starting up ; and, in spite 
of the long brocaded wrapping-gown in which he was en- 
veloped, standing for a moment erect, with no' other support 
than the pressure of his shrivelled hand upon the table- — 

’Tis utterly false 1” 

(( Then, old Dosem of the Market Place lies in his 
teeth,” muttered the notary, between his own. “At least,” 
he resumed aloud, “ you will admit that you have recently 
received leechcraft at his hands 

I sent for the meddling numskull to administer a catap- 
lasm to the shoulder of Zora yonder,” cried Sanchez, point- 
ing to a fine Spanish pointer that lay on a rug beside his es- 
critoire, — “ the poor beast having been hurt by the awk- 
wardness of my nephew-in-law. Sir Carnaby, who stum- 
bled over her with the cup of scalding diet-drink he was 
officiously hastening to offer me. But I see how ’tis ! — The 
whole batch of you are in league against me !— -the ass, my 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


11 


nephew-in-law, will suborn the paltry compounder of bo- 
luses to swear that at the period of inditing my will, I was 
infirm of body ; and my some-time agent and scrivener, 
Master Ebenezer Trackit, to prove that l was infirm of 
mind ! — My household servants will testify that these two 
sapient witnesses were admitted to my privacy ; and the 
law of the kingdom will forthwith issue a posthumous stat- 
ute of lunacy against a man whose head is as clear as its 
own, and whose conscience clearer ! And thus, my will is 
to be defeated ; the poor mulcted of their rights ; and thev 
jackanapes, Sir Carnaby Savile (who married with a com- 
fit-maker’s grand-ueice in hopes of appropriating his houses 
and lands as heir-at-law) will be enabled to sport twenty 
new doublets per month instead of ten ; while my lady, his 
wife, flaunts it at Court as brave as the best gentlewoman 
born ! — [’faith, ’tis enough to drive a man mad or into his 
grave, to think on’t !” — 

“Compose yourself, good Master Sanchez — compose 
yourself,” — ejaculated the cunning notary. “ All that you 
apprehend may be obviated, provided we take care of the 
wording of your bequest ; and, above all, in the selection of 
the gentlemen of trust to whom you propose to bequeath the 
execution of your will. Let them be such as Sir Carnaby 
Savile, in cunning or authority, may not overmatch. For 
the latter, if 1 may presume to suggest, let the Chancellor 
for the time being, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
whoever may fill that honourable and sacred function, be 
two of the four trustees of the purposed charity. For the 
remaining two, I would fain suggest, under submission to 
your better judgment, the Rector of Tottenham, as being 
especially interested in bettering the condition of its parish 
poor ; and my humble self, of all men living, best able to 
prove before her Majesty’s courts of justice, the sanity of 
the worshipful testator and the motives of the bequest.” 

“ Good faith, then, slight evidence may suffice !” cried 
old Sanchez, with a sneer. “ For what know ye of my 
motives? — and how, pray, are you to prove to the Con- 
sistory Court that I am not a crack-brained humorist, intent 
upon defrauding my rightful heirs for the sake of a whimsey ?’’ 

Master Ebenezer Trackit shrugged his shoulders. His 
client was hard to please. He would neither submit to be 
suspected of imbecility, nor asserted of sound intellect. 


12 THE QUEEN’S COMEIT-MAKER, 

“Nevertheless,” resumed the fractious gentleman, asham- 
ed, perhaps, of his own petulance — “ 1 must, perforce, con-; 
tent myself with such instruments as Providence affords me. 
It may further the accomplishment of my purpose that a 
Dettifoii^ing lawyer is interested in the scheme. For the 
sake of public influence, therefore, Master Trackit, inscribe, 
as trustees of the charity, the names of the two officials 
highest in authority in Church and State ; and, for the sake 
of professional zeal, the vicar, and the attorney. Put your 
, own finger in the pie, since I perceive that the pie will else 
be marred in the baking 1” — 

Master Trackit hastened to vindicate himself. His hon- 
oured patron wholly misjudged him. He had no wish to be 
included in the trusteeship — no desire to assist in making or 
marring the act so ignobly stigmatized by its benevolent 
deviser. 

“ Be it as I have said 1” — cried Balthazar, weary of the 
altercation. “And now, be off with you to your desk. By 
this hour to-morrow, let the parchment be fairly engrossed ; 
and when we have read it over together, ere my signature 
and signet be affixed in presence of such fitting witnesses as 
I shall summon for the purpose, you, in your turn, Master 
Notary, must listen to the recital of the early history of my 
life.” 

Ebenezer started in delighted astonishment. 

“ Seeing that, as you may have to testify of me and my 
secret springs of action, it is at least fitting you should know 
the man of whom you may have to speak ; and of whom, 
whether Jew or Gentile, sinner or saint, at present you 
know no more than that he was a native of Old Castile, and 
sometime comfit-maker to his most Catholic Majesty Don 
Philip, King of Spain, of blessed memory, as in my will set 
down.” 

“ And a dutiful and faithful subject of Elizabeth, Queen 
of England, whom God preserve 1” added the notary, with 
professional precision. 

“ That, as it may be 1” muttered Balthazar Sanchez ; 
while Ebenezer gathered up his papers, rose deliberately 
from his high-backed chair, and looked round in search of 
his trencher-cap. “ Meanwhile, be diligent. To-morrow, 
sir, at three of the afternoon ; — to day, God speed you 1” 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


13 


As the notary emerged from the gateway of Master 
Balthazar’s mansion (whereon, from privilege of place, as 
honorary comfit-maker to the Court, the arms of England 
were emblazoned within a garter, having a lion and a griffin 
for supporters, and the initials “ E. R.” annexed, in honour 
of her gracious Majesty the Queen, as may be seen even at 
this present writing),* nothing could exceed his exultation 
at the prospect of penetrating into the mysterious fortunes of 
an individual, concerning whom so much had been said and 
surmised in the neighbourhood, as Master Balthazar San- 
chez. The prospect of becoming trustee of his munificent 
donation, including right of attorneyship, and chance of 
litigation of the same, was nothing in comparison with such 
an insight into his private history as would enable him from 
that day forth and forevermore, to taunt and tantalize on 
this subject the inquisitive soul of his gabbling helpmate, 

Mistress Dorothv Trackit. 

•/ 

On th is score, however, the notary reckoned without his 
host ; for on resuming his seat in the dingy parlour of his 
client the following day, the first word uttered by Balthazar, 
was a condition of secrecy, solemn enough to appal even 
the soul of a notary. So manifest, indeed, w'as the awe of 
poor Ebenezer, that Master Sanchez instantly invited him 
to reinforce his courage by a deep draught of Malaga w ine, 
of which two kinds, the sw-eet and the dry, stood in antique 
flagons on the board ; and, beside them, certain parcel-gilt 
saucers of rare confectionary, compounded, probably, under 
the personal inspection of the venerable host, by whom, as 
history informs us, the noble art of comfit-making was first 
introduced into the realms of Britain. 

“ Taste, I pray you, of yonder candied pistachio nuts,” 
said the old Spaniard, with a smile more benevolent than lie 
had hitherto vouchsafed to the man of the law'. “ Their 
flavour (which hath been commended of more kings, prin- 
ces, and royal personages, than there are kernels in the dish) 
may serve to take off the ill-taste of the words 1 have com- 
pelled you to utter. 

“ On this especial confection, moreover, Master Ebene- 
zer, is founded the fabric of my fortunes ! By this rare in- 

* The house occupied by Balthazer Sanchez at Tottenham is now the 
George and Vulture Inn. 


14 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


vention, did your humble servant attract the notice and 
secure the favour of that memorable prince, on whose 
dominions the sun did never set, but on whose mind abided 
impenetrable darkness. God pity him ! — he is gone to his J 
dread account ; and, sinful soul as 1 an), rather, in the day 
of judgment, would I be poor Balthazar, the stewer o f 
pruins, than Don Philip of Old Spain and New, the roaster 
of his fellow-men !’’ 

The notary cast an anxious glance round the chamber. | 
In those times, sovereigns w ere not to be thus lightly | 
judged. Though Elizabeth of England was far gone in 
moral and physical decay, the law slept not, — the scaffold 
was still active; — nor did the hangman, like the old comfit- 
maker, hold an honorary function at court. 

“Fear not 1” quoth Balthazar, replying to his look of 
mute consternation. “ These walls are of notable thickness, 
as the bills of cost of my masons and bricklayers can attest ; 
seeing that, in my orders for their construction, 1 purposed 
them to outlive the existence of many a more lordly roof- 
tree, in order to testify of the poor comfit-maker to ages yet 
unborn. Be of good cheer, friend Ebenezer ! No eaves- 
droppers are at hand. With a view to the free discussion of 
the matters betw'een us, I have dispatched, hither and 
thither, the varlets, my serving-men ; and there be none left 
besides ourselves within the lintel of my door, saving deaf 
Ma rgery the cook-maid, who is absorbed in her afternoon 
diversion, mumbling the penitential psalms in her chimney- 
corner, while she basteth the roast for supper. We are as 
safe, man, as mice in a malT-tub ! — ” 

Thus re-assured, Master Ebenezer filled his mouth once 
more with the pistachio comfits pushed towards him, in their 
saucer of golden filigree, by his kindly host ; and, reclining 
against a high-backed ebony chair, w hich, to a modern 
lounger would be an instrument of torture, assumed an at- 
tentive attitude, wdiile Master Balthazar Sanchez cleared his 
throat, and delivered himself as follows: — 

“ Allow me to preface the history of my birth by that of 
my earliest consciousness. The first thing l remember is 
tender entreatment in a small farm-house, pleasantly situa- 
ted some four leagues from Madrid, between a straggling 
wood and a shallow river, w'hich afforded endless varieties 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


15 


f 

of sport and pastime. The old farmer and his wife who fed 
and clothed me, spoke of me, among our scanty neighbours, 
as the orphan of a deceased kinsman ; but so indulgent were 
they in their care, that, even in those years when the heart 
of childhood hungers and t hirsts after parental tenderness, I 
.never seemed to miss the fondness of father or mother. 
Not that I was indiscreetly pampered; — the habits of the 
place were humble and frugal. But 1 was a healthy happy 
child, left to the free use of my limbs, to the full enjoyment 
of earth, air, and water. The river, with its bulrushes for 
spears, its spotted trout for sport, — the wood with its wild 
fruits, wild flowers, wild squirrels, wilder song-birds, — were 
mine to have, if not to hold. I was allowed to wander at 
will ; to see the sun go dowm and rise again unchanged on 
the morrow ; the moon vanish and re-appear with an altered 
face ; the stars revolve and re-revolve, the same, yet ever 
varying. There was no one to molest me with restrictions, 
nor plague me with learning ; no doating mother to shriek 
when 1 approached the margin of the stream, or fall into a 
swoon if 1 climbed the lofty cork-tiees in search of a finch’s 
nest : there was not a soul, in short, to interpose betwixt pie 
and our universal Mother, Almighty Nature. Failing the 
ordinary ties of tenderness, 1 looked accordingly into her 
eyes for smiles, — I hung upon her lips for love, — I clung to 
her bosom for nourishment and joy ! — I was alone with her, 
alone in a desert, — alone at that holy age when there is bliss 
unmingled with awe in utter solitude ! 

“ It did not then occur to me to inquire why 1 was never 
called upon to assist the labours of Pepito and Dolores ; — 
why all around me were toiling, and I, at rest. I perceived 
only that these indulgent people had authority over tne, 
which, when it suited them, they exercised ; for once, when 
gazing at a far-off line of mountains bordering the horizon, 
I expressed a wish to explore their summits, and announced 
my intention of being off some summer-day, on an excursion 
into the Sierra, the old people denied me so resolutely, that 
I found my purpose was only to be accomplished by truancy. 

“ Is not the air good, and are not the woods hereabouts 
green enow for thy liking, child ?’ demanded old Pepito, 
taking the pipe from his mouth. Beware, Balthazar, be- 
ware! — A league’s space from our humble gates, and ther6 


16 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


is no safety for thee on earth ! — Abide with us in peace and 
safety ; or depart, and die the death of a dog.’ 

“ There was something so emphatic in the old man’s 
words and looks, that, though his threat was mere unsup- 
ported assertion, it sunk deep into my heart. 1 prepared 
myself for obedience with all the simplicity ol a child. But 
the following day, Dolores, as if compassionating my rest- 
lessness, bad me array myself in my best and accompany 
her to church, whither she had never yet suffered me to 
bear her company, The farm was a solitary place, remote 
from village or hamlet ; and the chapel, to which the good 
woman was accustomed to repair for the performance of her 
devotions, was attached to the convent of Sancta Benedicta, 
situated about half a league higher up the Manzanares. In 
the course of my solitary excursion 1 had often looked with 
awe upon its moated parapet. There was something in the 
lofty walls, rising almost to the level of the domed turret- 
tops, and above all, in the huge black iron cross surmounting 
the entrance, which spoke wonders to my imagination. 
Wandering near it at eventide, I had listened with deep 
emotion to the tolling of the Angelus, and at times even 
caught the solemn diapason of the choir, chanting their 
evening hymn to the Virgin. The nuns (named with deep 
reverence by the neighbouring peasantry as healers of their 
ills and comforters of their tribulations) presented to my 
mind a species of lesser divinities, the invisible origin of 
mighty and manifold good. Often had i longed to look on 
the un imaginable faces of those whose lips emitted sounds 
of such ethereal sweetness, and whose lives were gentle as 
their voices ; and when, following the footsteps of Dolores, 
I entered the narrow wicket, crossed the silent court, and 
slipped into the vast chapel, where only a few country peo- 
ple were kneeling on the marble pavement (the nuns being 
concealed from sight behind the sweeping green curtains of 
the choir,) so overpowering to my senses was the influence 
of the rolling music of the organ, the fragrant clouds of 
frankincense, the gorgeous ceiling of the gilded domes, and 
the deserted solitude of the aisles, that, by an impulsive 
movement, I dropped on my knees upon the marble floor 
beside my conductress, raising my hands, and calling in 
spirit on the name of God, as I had often done amid the 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


17 


green solitudes of the forest, or under the overarching canopy 
of heaven. 

“ It was no small disappointment, nevertheless, that a 
glimpse of my terrestrial angels was denied me; an when at 
length, a mumbling, greasy-faced old gentleman, ascended 
the pulpit, and, with a superabundance of groans and ges- 
tures, began to preach the religion of persecution, of flames, 
faggots, and eternal damnation, the spell of my piety was 
dissolved ; and right glad was I when the cessation of his 
discourse entitled my companion to make her exit from the 
chapel. To my surprise, instead of re-crossing the court- 
yard towards the wicket, Dolores made towards a side door, 
and entered a damp vestibule. She had business, it appeared 
with the Superior. An aged nun offered to conduct her to 
the Mother Abbess’s sanctuary, bidding me abide quietly 
behind ; and so little did this first interview with one of my 
cloistered angels tend to stimulate my curiosity, that it af- 
forded me small pleasure when, after ten minutes’ absence 
the conductress of Dolores returned, and bade me follow her 
to the presence of the Superior. 

Put off* thy cap and shoes, child ! — ’ w r as the admoni- 
tion of the old lay sister, as we reached the door ; and, 
thus abjectly prepared, I entered a suit of chambers, which 
to eyes familiar w'ith the bare walls and rude rafters of 
Pepito’s farm, appeared secondary only to the temple from 
which I had recently emerged. A succession of lofty 
doors of polished wood, incased in white or black marble, 
heavily but richly carved, gave us access through several 
chambers hung with tapestry, whereon to my inexperienced 
eyes, the figures seemed endowed with life and motion ; till 
we reached a small oratory, the stained windows of which 
diffused a supernatural hue over a tall cross of ebony, sup- 
porting the tortured body of the Redeemer, sculptured in 
the purest ivory. I forgot to tender my obesiance to the 
presiding mistress of the place, so thoroughly was my atten- 
tion absorbed by the saintly sweetness of that dying counte- 
nance, and the exquiste beauty of the work ! 

“‘On thy knees, boy, to the reverend Superior,’ ejacu- 
lated Dolores. But the boy heard her not. His eyes were 
riveted upon the crucifix. 

“ ‘ Your Reverence sees !’ — exclaimed Dolores, * If such 


18 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


be the first impression, what may not be anticipated from a 
continuous residence in the community ! Snatch, madam, 

0 snatch this brand from the fire ! — The boy’s sole chance 
of safety on earth, of salvation hereafter, lies in finding 
shelter under the roof of the daughters of heaven ! Another 
week, and the restlessness of his humor will bring him within 
reach of his enemies.’ 

“ Instead of replying, the Abbess kept deliberately sur- 
veying me ; while i, in return, gazed with wondering admi- 
ration upon the lofty figure and commanding countenance, 
set off by the rich robing of her vocation. 

“ * Be it so,’ said she, at length. ‘ I adopt thee, little 
outcast, into our house. Let him be taken to the confec- 
tionary, where sisters Clara and Ofilia will forthwith instruct 
him in the mysteries which have rendered our convent fa- 
mous among the banquelries of St. lldefonso.’ 

“ ‘ Kneel, child — kneel, and crave the blessing of thy 
benefactress!’ cried Dolores, apparently overcome with joy 
at the prospects unfolding for her protege ; and, though 
sorely puzzled to conceive what peculiar advantage l was to 
derive from the protection conceded, or what might be the 
nature of the mysteries into which 1 was to be inaugurated, 
— so awe-inspiring, was the aspect of the towering Lady 
Abbess, arrayed in her stole and cross of office, — that down 

1 went at her feet, while, with her shrivelled hand imposed 
upon my head, she pronounced her benediction. 

“On striking lightly on a bell of golden fretwork append- 
ed to the desk of the oratory, the lay sister again appeared 
to conduct us forth ; and after threading an infinity of gloomy 
passages, we suddenly found ourselves in an airy vaulted 
chamber, the floor of which was of the tessellated 
marble of the country, with scattered tables of the same 
costly material, whereat sat divers sisters of the order, 
enrobed with scrupulous neatness ; — one shredding rose- 
leaves into a wicker basket, another carefully separating the 
petals of a heap of orange blossoms, a third pouring clarified 
honey through a sieve of snow-white lawn ; while several 
others stood beside little stoves or furnaces, slowly stirring 
certain delicate confections, the aroma of which imparted a 
most appetizing flavor to the atmosphere. Such was the 
confectionary of the convent of Sartcta Benedicta ; and, 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


19 


young and ignorant as I was, the processes in progress 
around me, and the death-like silence in which they were 
performed, were almost as startling as the crucibles and 
alembics of an alchymist ! — 

“The object of my presence there was soon explained ; 
and, though the glances cast upon me by sisters Ofilia 
and Clara, to whose hands I had been commended by the 
Abbess, were far from conciliating, l was too much overpow- 
ered by the novelty of the scene to offer much opposition, 
when my foster-mother took leave of me on her departure, 
promising to furnish me on the morrow with my scanty 
wardrobe, and exhorting me to be docile and submissive. 

“ ‘ But I shall return to the farm — I shall soon return to 
the farm ?’ — I demanded, clinging to her hand. 

“ Do I ores shook her head. 

“ ‘ Nay, but 1 must and will return !’ — cried I . — e My 
garden — my faithful dog — my poor thrush — my 

“ ‘ They shall be cared for, Balthazar, 5 replied my foster- 
mother, with a sadder countenance than I had ever seen her 
wear; ‘but I know thee too well, boy, and love thee too 
well, to renew for thee an enjoyment of a lawless liberty, 
such as would surely lead to thy destruction. 5 

“In vain were my remonstrances. The more I entreated, the 
more Dolores hasetned her departure, lest my reluctance 
should dispose the good nuns harshly towards me? and no 
sooner was she gone, than the lay sisters gave me over in 
charge to the old gardener of the convent, whose hovel was 
to be my sleeping apartment. Tonsured, bathed, and clad 
in the linen ephod of a novice, I was re-admitted on the 
morrow to the presence of my instructresses, and entrusted 
with the grating of some ripe citron peels, the delicate fra- 
grance of which almost reconciled me to the task. 

“ Fear not ! — l am not about to inaugurate you, good 
Master Ebenezer, into the arts and mysteries of my calling. 
Suffice it that, as in all other apprenticeships, that which at 
first diverted me as a sport, as a task grew tedious. 1 soon 
loathed the close confinement imposed upon me — the heated 
and sickly atmosphere of the confectionary — the penan- 
ces imposed on me for trifling blunders — the cuds bestowed 
when some vessel or implement of silver was presented tar- 
nished to the discriminating eye of Sister Ofilia. My young 


20 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 




limbs burned to refresh themselves in the limpid brook, — 
my young heart to expand, according to its wont, amid 
summer leaves and joyous birds. My sole recreation con- 
sisted in an occasional hour’s labor with old Pedro in the 
convent garden ; the high walls of which caused even the 
poor plants and flowers to spindle up towards the blessed 
light of the sky, even as my own soul was aspiring towards 
a happier sphere. 

“ Idle were my repinings ! Easy as had been my ingress 
to the convent, egress was impossible. A rash attempt at 
escape was punished, not only with the discipline, but with 
a month’s confinement in a solitary cell ; and so happy were 
the results of my seclusion, that, on the cessation of my pun- 
ishment, I began to find even the air of the confectionary 
balmy, and the gossip of the old nuns cheering. From that 
period, all intercourse with poor Dolores (who had been ac- 
customed to visit the convent on Sabbaths and feast-days) 
was denied me ; wisely, perhaps, — for the less l recurred to 
the farm and its rural freedom, the better 1 was likely to 
content myself with the narrow limits and formal platbands 
of Sancta Benedicta, with silent hosts of white-robed sisters 
gliding like ghosts along the dim alleys. 

“ Meanwhile, my education progressed. I was instructed, 
not only in the secrets of the confectionary, but the grand 
mysteries of the Christian faith. I became a devout Cath- 
olic, as well as an expert comfit-maker. On my entrance 
into the convent, I was scarcely ten years old ; and, ere I 
attained my fifteenth year, even the envy of Sisters Clara 
and Ofilia admitted me to be a master of my art. Already 
I had defied them by more than one chef-d’oeuvre of in- 
ventive genius, especially hy certain comfits of candied pis- 
tachio nuts, scented with amber, and enrolled in leaf of 
gold, concocted as an express token of duty to the Lady 
Abbess, when she despatched her annual offering of con- 
fectionary to the most reverend Archbishop of Toledo, 
let, strange to tell, the older I grew, and the more I ex- 
celled, the more I was thwarted and macerated ; and though 
I had now tamed down my spirit to submit unresistingly to 
the heavy penances imposed upon me, 1 sometimes cursed 
my life for very bitterness. 



A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


21 


“ One day, when after having suffered some syrup to lose 
its color on the stove, of which sister Clara was in need for 
the candying of some double violets whereof it was her 
custom to forward a gift every spring to an eminent canon 
of the Church of Oviedo, a distant kinsman of her own 
(or, as the old gardener, Pedro, had hinted to me, her un- 
avowed son), l was suddenly summoned to the presence of 
the Superior, whom I had not seen for months. — Satisfied 
that I was about to undergo a severe reprimand, and, prob- 
ably some new mode of penance, l could scarcely conceal 
my sullenness, as, with downcast eyes, I entered her august 
presence and kneeled down to receive the signification of 
her pleasure. 

“ ‘Balthazar, my poor lad !’ — said she, addressing me in 
a tone of more amenity than was her wont, * I have griev- 
ous tidings to communicate to thee.’ 

“ Instantly recurring to the farm, and those who had sup- 
plied the place of kinsmanship to my childhood, 1 hazarded 
in an inquiring tone the name of Pepito and Dolores. 

“ ‘They are well, or 1, at least, have no news of their 
mischance,’ said the Abbess, with dignified contempt. ‘ The 
intelligence I would unfold, boy, is of far more cruel import 
than the decease of a Castilian peasant. An unhappy 
change hath occurred in thy destinies, Balthazar. Thou 
art about to quit the convent ! — ’ 

“ My heart leapt within me at the word. 

“ ‘ For ever!' persisted the Abbess in a sepulchral tone, 
discerning perhaps, the levity with which I was hearkening 
to her announcement. 

“ My countenance »gain brightened. But I judiciously 
concealed my joy, by inclining my head towards the earth ; 
and, conceiving that her denunciation had now taken proper 
effect, the Abbess attempted to neutralize the terrors of her 
intelligence. 

“ 4 own to thee, my son,’ she resumed, ‘ that even wert 
thou not summoned hence by unimpugnable authority, it had 
been impossible to prolong much longer thy sojourn within 
these sacred gates ; whence those of thy sex are, by the 
vow of our holy order, rigorously excluded. Thou art no 
longer a child, Balthazar’ — (God knows, the venerable lady 
VOL. ii. — 3 # 


22 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


and her coadjutresses had treated me as nothing else !) — 
‘and, in regard to thine advancing years, I had purposed to 
dispose of thee at Whitsuntide in the household of my 
grand-nephew, the Bishop of Leon. But heaven is above 
all ! Thy destinies are removed out of my hands ; and 1 
am forced, my poor youth, to leave half accomplished the 
good deed of thy conversion, and surrender thee to the per- 
ils and dangers of t-he world.’ 

“ Dear perils ! blessed dangers ! — how the mere menace 
caused my young blood to thrill ! — The only perils I could 
figure to myself were those by wood or wave, avalanches, 
mountain torrents, and sea-storms, such as I had read of in 
the lives of the saints. 

“ ‘In a word, Balthazar,’ said the old lady who had favor- 
ed me with so many, ‘ thou art away to court !’ 

“ Involuntarily 1 raised my joyous face to gaze open- 
mouthed on the superior. 

“ ‘The Prince of Asturias, whom the mother of God and 
her blessed saints preserve,’ quoth she, ‘ hath sent for thee 
to St. Ildefonso.’ 

“ For me, madam ! — the Infant hath sent for me?” was 
all I' could articulate. 

“ ‘A grace for which thou art indebted to my considera- 
tion,’ resumed the Abbess. ‘ Some days ago (the very even- 
ing when I was horror-struck by the assertion of Sister Ofil- 
Ja, that, notwithstanding her express prohibition, thou badst 
twice been seen lurking near the garden whereto the sisters 
of the house are admitted for their hour of recreation), an 
express arrived here from my noble kinsman the Archbishop, 
requiring the recipe for compounding, certain comfits of pis- 
tachio nuts, scented with amber, whereof Don Philip had 
partaken when, being seized one day, after a prolonged sit- 
ting of the council, with a cough, from irritation and ex- 
haustion, the Archbishop dutifully produced his comfit-box 
till better refreshment was forthcoming. His Highness’ pal- 
ate, Balthazar, was tickled with the flavor of that idle in- 
vention of thy leisure !’ — 

“O happy comfits! — O thrice fortunate pistachios,” — 
cried I, in a transport of loyalty. 

“ ‘But instead of contenting myself with forwarding to 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


23 


my lord the Archbishop,’ resumed the Abbess, 1 the instruc- 
tions ol which he stood in need, 1 acquainted him that the 
author of the auspicious confection was wholly at his ser- 
vice. His lordship, it appears, hastened to make the same 
dutiful tender to the prince ; and, lo ! I have before me the 
sign-manual of Don Philip, attaching thee from this day 
forth at a salary of one hundred reals monthly, to the ser- 
vice of St. Ildefonso.’ ” 

cc Let no man presume to opine from what quarter will 
blow the trade wind of his fortunes !” exclaimed the no- 
tary, fancying that some comment was required of him. 
“Promoted at court per favor of a dish of comfits ! — The 
Lord be good to us ! — Parchment and pounce are little like- 
ly to speed a poor English sinner so far as even the por- 
ter’s lodge of Windsor Castle. Marry it must have been 
a right happy day, Master Balthazar, that set you free 
from the bondage of the old women of Sancta Benedic- 
ta ?” 

“ Sweet and sour commingle in every human triumph,” 
replied the confectioner. “ At the moment of my depart- 
ure for Madrid, laden with the gifts and good wishes of my 
benefactresses, l could almost have wept over my emanci- 
pation. And lo ! just as the breath of the free air without 
the walls, and the long-lost sight of the dancing waters and 
quivering trees began to restore my consciousness of joy, a 
withered hand was laid upon my bridle-reign, and, drawing 
me aside out of hearing of the royal courier I was about to 
accompany to St. Ildefonso, poor Dolores whispered a word 
of warning in my ear.” 

“ 1 I received thy message,’ muttered she, 4 that the 
peremptory commands laid on thee admitted no leisure for a 
visit to the farm ; and forthwith hurried hither to arrest thy 
departure. Balthazar Sanchez ! Go not, O go not to 
Madrid ! Avoid St. Ildefonso! — Tremble at the aspect of 
Don Philip of Spain. — There is not an hour’s safety for 
thee, my son, after quitting the gates of this convent 1’ 

“ 4 Explain, explain,” cried I, finding that the courier was 
growing impatient. 

“ ‘ I cannot — I dare not ! Life and death are balanced 
over thy head by a single hair; yet can 1 do no more than 
bid thee beware 1’ faltered Dolores. 


24 the queen’s comfit-maker, 

u In a few incoherent words, 1 explained the peremptory 
necessity of obedience to the royal command ; referring her 
to the Lady Abbess for confirmation of my assertion. 

“ £ Since needs must, then,’ murmured the affectionate 
woman with a sigh, ‘ I can but implore thee, my poor Bal- 
thazar, on my bended knees, to keep close to thy vocation. 
Divide thy days betwixt duty and devotion. — Grow not an 
idle wassailer like the rest, nor clap hands with chance 
companions ; — above all, range not beyond the precincts of 
the palace. There are those on the watch to do thee evil, 
who, for dear life’s sake, would not adventure within the 
purlieus of St. Ildefonso ” 

“ The authority of the king’s messenger put a close to her 
extraordinary apostrophe ; and, great as was my amazement 
at the good woman’s mysterious vehemence, my attention 
was soon diverted by the novelty of the scenes that pre- 
sented themselves, after hurrying from her presence. — My 
early experience was comprised within a walk of the farm — 
my experience of the last five years within the still narrower 
compass of a high-w'alled garden ; and the rapture of my 
soul, in gazing once more upon the expanded face of Nature, 
is scarcely to be described in words. The royal messen- 
ger, — a man accustomed to sit in saddle three hundred days 
of the year, — laughed outright at my ecstasy on viewing the 
most familiar objects ; — a w illow' overhanging a broc k, a tree 
engarlanded with ivy, a bank overgrown with wild flowers ! 

“ ‘ How will it be with thee, youngster,’ cried he, ‘ when 
thou beholdest the majestic walls of St. Ildefonso?’ 

“ But the majestic walls of St. Ildefonso said nothing to 
my soul. The scene was but an enlarged portraiture of 
what l had left behind at Sancta Benedicta ; and there, as 
at the convent, I was doomed to yearn after green fields ver- 
dant forests, and all the cheerfulness of sylvan freedom. 

“ Such satisfaction, however, as courtly advancement 
could bestow, was lavished on me, even to prodigality. 
Without any announcement of my arrival, the prince was 
pleased to detect the cunning of my hand in the very first 
collation served up to the royal table after my instalment ; 
and to signify his approval, by requiring that my services 
should be dedicated to his sole delectation. Overawed, in 
spite of myself, by the mysterious denunciations of my poor 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


25 


foster-mother, I had already determined to confine myself 
exclusively to the discharge of my duties ; and, my efforts 
thus highly appreciated, I applied all the force of my inge- 
nuity to the invention of new dainties for the royal palate. 
Every day, so long as the summer fruits hung ripe on the 
bough, 1 strove to enhance their flavour by my confections; 
and, on winter days, when they hung there no longer, 1 re- 
called them to the memory of Don Philip by some sacchar- 
ine infusion. Heaven knows, the unhappy prince had need 
of syrups and confects to sweeten his imagination ; beset as 
he was with grand inquisitors, chirurgeons, generals, admirals, 
and all the unholy army of martyr-makers, that surrounds 
the throne of a bigot prince. From my poor chamber, ad- 
joining the roof of St. lldefonso, and commanding at least a 
view of the open country, 1 truly pitied him ; — he, whose 
prospects were so bounded — he, who seemed to build his 
hopes of heaven on rendering earth a hell to his fellow-men. 

“ Albeit I strictly adhered to the counsels of Dolores, and, 
devoted to my daily duties, never attempted to sally forth 
from the palace-gates ; at odd moments, when my work was 
done, and the court engaged in attendance on the royal table 
or mass, I managed to glide out ; and, on pretence of seek- 
ing fresh annis or coriander for my comfits, obtain a view’, 
through the gilded latices of the pleasure-gardens, of the 
court ladies, parading in their robes of satin and brocade, to 
feed the peacocks that clustered round the marble fountains, 
or the gay Indian carp that glittered in the limpid waters 
below'. One or other of the younger dames was usually 
loitering, gittern or lute in hand, beneath the dark shadow's 
of the cedars or broad-leaved catalpa trees, shedding a mel- 
ancholy charm about the place ; and at such times, mono- 
tonous as was my daily routine of life, 1 lelt that there was 
joy in being an inmate of St. lldefonso. It was only when 
a procession of inquisitors reached the palace with tidings of 
some grievous arrest or horrible auto-da-fe, destroying the 
peace of families and causing my blood to freeze at the re- 
cital, that I sometimes repined at having to live and die the 
household servant of Philip of Spain. 

“ Among the happier privileges of my vocation, was that 
of taking mv turn in the daily distribution of the provisions 
remaining after the meals of the royal household. Every 


26 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


* 


morning after the ringing of the Angelus, the poor were 
regaled in one of the minor courts of the palace ; and the 
constant accession of pretendants to a share in the dole 
afforded sufficient proof how highly it was valued by the 
humble population of the environs. Pilgrims and mendi- 
cants thronged to the gate, — infirm and aged persons, who 
could not dig, and to beg were ashamed ; while others ol 
better degree seemed to find especial pleasure in feeding on 
the crumbs that fell from a king’s table. 

“ Among the latter, about a twelvemonth after my ad- 
mission into the royal establishment, I began to notice a fe- 
male of lofty stature, attired in a mourning habit ; who ap- 
peared to have seen better days, and to whom I was careful 
to assign a liberal portion of the spoil. Her face I was un- 
able to discern, so closely was it concealed in the loose cape 
of her sable dress. Her deportment w r as that of a person 
infirm from sickness, rather than advanced in years ; and, 
one morning, when she advanced to receive a basket of 
bread and fruit which I had set. aside for her, 1 ventured to 
add an inquiry, whether or not she was in such bodily need 
as to accept of — 1 was about to add, such alms as a menial 
may offer, when, suddenly raising her head so as to look me 
directly in the face, she deprived me of all power to com- 
plete my inquiry. I felt sinking into nothing under the 
scrutiny of her dark and piercing eyes ! — 

“ ‘ Is there aught, signora, in which 1 can do you service 
or pleasure?’ was my amended inquiry ; and, unconscious- 
ly, I uttered the words with the reverence due to a queen. 

‘‘For a moment, the stranger remained silent — her fear- 
ful gla nee still riveted upon my face. 

“ ‘ Meet me this evening, at dusk, at the western extrem- 
ity of the avenue of catalpas !’ — said she, in a low concen- 
trated voice. 

“ ‘ The gar dens of St. Ildefonso are closed at that hour, 
saving for t hose connected with the Court,’ 1 faltered in 
reply, — not daring to say, in plain terms, the gates of the 
royal gardens unclose not for mendicants. 

“ ‘ No matter, — 1 shall be there,’ replied the stranger; 
and, folding around her more closely the loose cap of serge 
which replaced the basquiua of a more prosperous class, she 
turned an angle of the court, and disappeared. 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


27 


“And now, nothing could exceed my perturbation. A 
year within the precincts of a Court had initiated me tolera- 
bly well into the tender mysteries of love passages and 
assignations. But the age and deportment of my new ac- 
quaintance repressed all inclination to hope that her business 
with me was of a tender nature. She might come, however, 
as the emissary of others ; and, though still secretly in awe 
of one who seemed born for the old Castilian fashion of 
wearing a dagger in her garter, I was true to my appoint- 
ment. 

“ A dark figure awaited me under the third catalpa tree. 

“‘Balthazar!’ exclaimed the voice of the stranger, in a 
scarcely-articulate gasp of delighted surprise, ‘ art thou 
come indeed ?’ — 

“ ‘ Thou hadst my word signora,’ replied I. Then, 
fearing that, although the gardens were nearly deserted, our 
interview might attract attention, 1 took her by the hand ; 
and, leading her through the dusk, intcvthe deep recesses 
of a cypress grove, placed her on one of its most secluded 
seats. 

“ ‘ Your pleasure, signora ?’ — said I, in a low voice. But 
no answer was vouchsafed save only broken sobs. ‘ Your 
pleasure, signora ?’ I again repeated, fearing that I was to 
be made the dupe of a scene of pretended emotion ; when, 
lo ! instead of replying, the stranger flung her arms passion- 
ately round me, and strained me passionately to her bosom. 

| My first impulse was to extricate myself from these unsought 
embraces. • 

\ “‘Balthazar!’ faltered the weeping woman, ‘canstthou 
not discriminate between the caresses of a wanton and of a 
mother? Boy, boy ! — the bosom to which thou art pressed 
in that which cherished thine infancy! My son — my own 

my only ! O, that thus, by stealth, and in shadows of 

death, we should be fated to meet again !’ 

“Great as was my amazement at this outburst of tender- 
ness, the forewarnings of my good Dolores forbad me to give 
[ way to the impulses of tenderness wakening in my heart. 

“‘And how am I to determine the truth of all this?’ 
said I, labouring to repress my emotion. 

“‘Doth not the intensity of an agonized mother’s voice 
bring conviction with it ?’ — she replied, relaxing her era- 


28 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 

brace. ‘Doth Nature whisper nothing to thy soul? — Sub- 
mit thee, then, at least, to the testimony of vulgar evidence, 

1 adjure thee, Balthazar Sanchez, by the home and guar- 
dians of thine infancy, by yonder farm on the Manzanares' 
side, by Pepito and Dolores thy foster-parents, by the con- 
vent of Sancta Benedicta, by ’ 

“ ‘ All these things may have been reported to thee by 
others,' said 1, still mistrustful. 

“ ‘By the stain, then, wherewith, in the hour of birth, ! 
thy right arm above the wrist was disfigured, I challenge | 
thee, as my offspring, and claim of thee the honor and hom- 
age of a son !’ — said the stranger, in stern displeasure ; \ 
and, this time, my answer consisted in drop ping on my 
knees at her feet ! But though thus tacitly recognising her I 
claim, no yearning of the affections impelled me to lavish upon \ 
her the caresses of a child. 1 was awe-struck, over-powered, 
but not softened by the discovery that I was no longer an or- 
phan. Nature seemed to forewarn me that there were humil- 
iating secrets in store for me; and that I was already encom- 
passed by the snares announced by Dolores. 

“ I was not long left in suspense. My mother, (or let 
me at once assign to her the name by which she at length 
announced herself) the Signora Rachaela Sanchez, aware 
that the moments of our interview were numbered, suffered 
me not to waste my time in interrogation. 

“‘Thou wouldst doubtless know, Balthazar,’ said she, 
enfolding her arms around me as I sat beside her on the 
marble bench, ‘ to what end I have thus strangely prolonged 
my separation from the child of my flesh ? The moon hath 
not yet revolved, my son, upon my sojourn in Spain ! I 
come to thee, after an exile in foreign lands ; after fifteen 
years of toil and privation, under the scorching suns of Af- 
rica ; and if the coldness with which thou hast welcomed 
me arise from the fears inspired by my mendicant’s habit, 
arise and be of good cheer. I am rich, Balthazar. Though 
driven into banishment, a worse than beggar, the God of 
my fathers hath prospered me ; and I return to my native 
country (albeit in secret, and under peril of the laws,) opu- 
lent enough to bribe, if not the clemency of the King, at 
least the merey of the executioner!’ 

“ ‘ The executioner ?’ — faltered I ; the secret misgiv- 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


29 


nigs suggested by the Israelitish name of Rachaela, grad- 
ually increasing. 

“ f Hatli the woman Dolores so far fallen from her pledge, 
as to keep thee ignorant of the misfortunes of thy parents, 
that thou art thus astounded ?’ cried my mysterious mother 
in a low hoarse voice. ‘ Not content with defiling thy 
young life by contact with a Christian congregation ’ 

“ A cry of horror, bursting from the very depth of my 
soul, interrupted her disclosures. ‘Speak, speak P I ex- 
claimed, trembling with apprehension. ‘Who am I — and 
what art thou , — who thus overcomest my mind with ter- 
rors ?’ 

“ ‘ Thou art the circumcised child of persecuted parents, 
pertaining to the people elect of Cod,’ replied Rachaela, 
with haughty defiance ; and no sooner had the fearful secret 
escaped her lips, that in lieu of renewing my intreaties for 
farther information, I placed my hands upon her lips, im- 
ploring her to forbear. 

“ * Ay !’ cried she, with bitterness, having at length 
wrested away my hand — e like the rest, poor miserable pol- 
troon, thou shrinkest from her on whose head a price is set 
by the minions of the law ! Thou wouldst even deny, I 
doubt not, thy persecuted creed !’ 

“ ‘My creed ? — It is none of mine !’ — I exclaimed, with 
indignation. ‘ The very name of Jew is loathsome in my 
ears ! — To the God of Christians was 1 taught to bend my 
knees. Among Christians have I abided — among Christians 
will I still abide. Unless thou art some messenger of Satan 
sent to work the perdition of my soul, away with thee at 
once, lest 1 be tempted ’ 

“ ‘ To what V — interrupted Rachaela ; ‘ to surrender me 
into the hands of the blood-seeking Inquisition, or of the 
stoney-hearted Piince, their master and thine ? — Do it ! — 
Summon the guard ! Resign to their tender mercies the 
mother who bore thee ; that they may butcher her, even as 
they did thy father, the husband of her youth, as a sport for 
the populace of Madrid 1’ 

“Unconsciously I approached, and took her hand. 

“‘Was it not a pleasant recreation for them !’ continued 
Rachaela, in an appaling whisper. ‘ An auto-da-fe l — The 
Inquisition, with its banners, and torches, and fiend-like fa- 
vol. ii — 4 


30 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


miliars ! — The well-piled faggots, the resin, the tar-barrel, — 
to torture, both in the flesh and the spirit, the last moments 
of poor Caspar Sanchez, the mildest, truest, kindest, of all 
the sons of his tribe ! Casper, who never wronged a fellow- 
creature of a doit, nor injured a hair of mortal head ? But 
he was a Jew — a proscribed Jew ! — Driven by royal 
edict from the fertile fields of Spain, he had presumed to re- 
turn (even as I have now returned) by stealth and in dis- 
guise ; in order that his first-born child might see the light 
beneath the same roof where he had first beheld it. And, 
lo ! the Christian murderers, whose creed professes pardon 
and meekness and peace, detected us in the worship of the 
God of Israel, and plunged him into the dungeons of the 
Hermandad! Then it was that, escaping in the darkness 
of the night, my infant in my arms, I preserved thy life, Bal- 
thazar, by entrusting thee to the honest couple whom the 
humanity of thy poor father had, in his better days, pre- 
served from ruin. Even fallen as we were, Pepito and Dolo- 
res swore to become parents to the orphan child of Caspar 
Sanchez/ 

“ ‘ And nobly fulfilled their undertaking/ said I, firmly. 

“ ‘ ’Tis false !’ cried my mother. ‘ In accepting, for thy 
behoof, the small sum 1 had been able to bear away, they 
solemnly undertook to use no efforts to detach thee from thy 
father’s faith.’ 

“ ‘ Nor did they. No word of religious instruction did 1 
ever receive from their lips. It was only when, with coming 
years, they saw' the turbulent spirit of the circumcised boy 
abandoned to their charge, expose him to danger of detec- 
tion, that they placed me in the convent ofSanata Benedic- 
ta, and thus wrought the good work of my salvation.’ 

“ ‘ And of my revenge !’ added my mother, in a low con- 
centrated voice. ‘ Balthazar little dreamed those poor, 
bigoted, Castilian boors to how' great a deed they were de- 
voting their nursling 1 I have told thee that, to save thy life, 
I fled before the enemies of thy father. To avenge his 
death have 1 borne thenceforward the burden of existence. 
To thy hand, boy, the deed of retribution is decreed. In 
the Word of the God of Israel is it written — 4 an eye for an 
eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life !’ and, lo ! a royal 
one is assigned to repay the death of my murdered Caspar ! 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


31 


l bilip of Spain, the blood-thirstiest of her blood-thirsty 
princes, the favoring and favored son of the Holy Herman- 
dad, must die by thy hand !’ ” 

The gradually increasing emotion with which the venera- 
ble Spaniard had been pursuing his narrative, now thoroughly 
overcame him. Reclining breathless in his chair, he wrung 
his hands in utter agony ; till the notary, after much sooth- 
ing expostulation, entreated him to pass briefly over such 
passages of his history as were too afflicting to his soul. 

u ^ so • 5 — murmured the old gentleman, when at 
length he regained the power of utterance. Let it suf- 
fice thee, in a few fearful words, that, at that first interview 
and many succeeding ones, the implacable widow of Cas- 
par Sanchez left no argument unattempted to prove that I 
owed it as a sacred duty to the memory of my father to 
offer up in attonement the life of Don Philip! The facili- 
ties afforded by my confidential post rendered the horrible 
deed only too easy of accomplishment. Furnished by my 
mother with the slow but subtle poisons of the East, i had 
only to decree the death of the Prince of Asturias, escape 
with Rachaela to the coast ere the effects of the poison 
Were manifest, and, hastily embarking, betake myseif to the 
land of my forefathers ; — and glowing, indeed, were the 
terms in which Rachaela described to my bewildered sen- 
ses the joys of an Oriental clime ! — 

“ Fearful, — oh, fearful was my temptation ! — Not that 
for a moment 1 inclined towards the commission of so great 
a crime ; but, on discovering my abhorrence, my mother as- 
tuciously addressed her endeavors to obtain an influence over 
my affections, — pretending to listen to the arguments with 
which 1 endeavored to convert her to the religion of peace ; 
— while, ever and anon, artfully reverting to the virtues, the 
sufferings, the frightful end of my father. Then, when sat- 
isfied of having roused in my bosom the dormant filia I in- 
stincts so potent in all human hearts, she failed not to thre at- 
en, in case of rny persisting in my resistance, to give her- 
self up to the Holy Tribunal, and suffer death as a Jewess, 
before the face of God and of her son ! 

“Perplexed, — bewildered, — at one moment on the point 
of myself accusing her as a regicide- — the next, almost dis- 
posed to become an assassin rather than endanger the life 


32 


THE QUEEN’S COMFIT-MAKER, 


of the author of my days, — how I longed for a renewal of 
those peaceful times of old on the banks of the Mauzanares, 
— how 1 regretted the uneventful moments of the convent 
of Sancta Benedicta ! — 

‘‘The perils in which I stood, — the intemperate revilings 
of Racbaela, — the revulsion of feeling produced by loving 
as a mother one whom I abhorred as a Jewess, — at length 
so irritated my blood, as to throw me into a raging fever. 
In the ravings of delirium, my secret transpired ; and though 
at first treated as the delusion of insanity, the perpetually 
recurring terms of my adjurations, at length determined the 
royal confessor (who had been brought by my fellow ser- 
vants to witness my excitement) to institute an investiga- 
tion. 

“ Spare me the rest, — When, at the close of many months, 
I was restored to perfect consciousness, I found that the 
fires of the Inquisition had again been kindled, and that an- 
other victim was gone to rejoin the manes of Caspar San- 
chez ! 

“ My first impulse was to depart from a country watered 
with the blood of my kindred. But the contempt with 
which, on my recovery, I found myself treated by my com- 
rades who affected to regard me as a recanted Jew, deter- 
mined me to tarry for awhile, lest it should be supposed 1 
fled from fear of their misusage. While thus irresolute, I 
was summoned into the presence of the comptroller of the 
royal household, who (after bidding me bless upon my knees, 
the clemency of Don Philip), acquainted me that the 
Prince, being about to embark for England to solemnize his 
union with Queen Mfcry, had decided that I should form 
one of the royal suite. 

“‘Don Philip condescends to consider,’ he continued, 
‘ that no stronger evidence of fidejity could be afforded than 
by your steady resistance to the evil suggestions of your 
mother. To reward, therefore, the stanchness of your faith 
as a Catholic, and loyalty as a subject, he doubles your sal- 
ary as chief confectioner, and bids you prepare for immedi- 
ate embarkation.” 

“ Rebellion against such a mandate was impossible. But 
I was, in fact, overjoyed to be released from Spain. A res- 
idence at St, lldefonso, darkened by such dreadful reminis- 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


33 


cences, was insupportable. Madrid was worse. The 
church of the Dominicans, where sentence had been pro- 
nounced upon my parents, and the Plaza where their horri- 
ble destiny was accomplished, were alike hateful to my 
soul. The invisible hand of the Holy Hermandad seemed 
armed against my life. — Mysterious voices ever murmured 
in the air, prophesying evil ; and whenever it was my chance 
to meet a procession of the order of St. Dominic, the blood 
seemed frozen in my veins ! — 

<c Under such circumstances, Master Notary, judge how 
great was my relief to disembark upon the strand of Brit- 
ain ! — The land, as we sailed betwixt the wooded banks of 
the Southampton river, looked green and tranquil as a dove’s 
nest, and, though the minds of the people were disposed 
against this Spanish alliance, desiring to behold their Queen 
wedded with a countryman of their own, yet was our recep- 
tion and progress bright with overflowing hospitality. 

“ It needs not to enlarge upon the events that followed. 
The favor I enjoyed in the eyes of the Prince sufficed to 
recommend me to the grace of her Majesty, — who in her 
fulsome fondness for a bridegroom eleven years her junior, 
used to requite, with the most lavish prodigality, the trifling 
gifts offered as tokens of his respect. Among these, accord- 
ing to the custom of Spain, sweetmeats were a common 
offering; and, on occasion of his Highness presenting to her 
Majesty on her birth-day a comfit-box, richly encrusted with 
jewels, and filled with his favorite confection of candied pis- 
tachio nuts, Don Philip took occasion to relate the story of 
his faithful Balthazar, whose a billies he was pleased to esti- 
mate far beyond their desserts. 

“ e The youth must henceforward be especially attached 
to my household,’ replied the Queen, at the close of her 
royal husband’s narrative ; and no small relief was it to my 
mind that, when Don Philip, weary of the thraldom of 
wedlock, affected to be recalled to Spain by business of 
state, I was allowed to remain behind, in the quiet verdant 
iseclusion of Richmond. There, even there, did nature 
Iseem to take me once more to her bosom ! In this sylvan 
retreat, the peace of other days came back to me. Amid 
(the blending beauties of its woods and waters, I tried to 
lose the impression of my past afflictions, 

VOL. II. — 4 # 


34 


THE QUEEN'S COMFIT-MAKER, 


“ The sole embitterment of my life arose from the relig- 
ious persecutions which soon filled the kingdom with tears 
and anguish. Though the temper and constitution of the 
country forbad the introduction of the Inquisition, as at one 
period meditated by the Queen, the intolerant spirit of 
Philip’s congenial wife caused the flames of persecution to 
be kindled ; and, in lieu of Pagans, and Jews, Christian 
now consigned his fellow-Chrislian to the stake ! 

“ Against such a breach of divine law, my soul revolted , 
and in many a secret prayer did I commend myself to the 
Almighty, imploring him to soften the heart of the Queen, 
and so modify the belief of the people that the religion of 
Christ might become all in all, and faith, hope, and charity 
govern the institutions of the land. 

“‘Beware!’ would oftentimes exclaim that prudent and 
tender soul, Mistress Alice Harkwell, who afterwards became 
my wife and household comforter — ‘ beware lest these un- 
orthodox sentiments be suspected. Thine opinions, Master 
Balth azar, savor of the faggot and tar-barrel. By my 
sooth ! thou art already half a Protestant.’ 

“ And so, true to her insinuation, on the death of the 
Queen, and the accession of the glorious Elizabeth, I be- 
came wholly a Protestant, and her spouse. It was not, as 
many inferred, the desire to retain my place at court which 
opened my ears to the arguments wherewith the chaplains 
of her Majesty labored to enlighten the darkness of her 
faithful servitors ; but that from the Popish cause there ema- 
nated an odor of human blood, too grievously reminding me 
of the fate of my parents ! Persecution and intolerance 
were the handmaidens of the Roman Church ; — and, some- 
how or other, the Jewish blood within me seemed to curdle in 
my veins at the very sight of the uplifted Host. 

“ At the Queen’s coronation, Master Notary, trust me 
there was not a more devoted Protestant kneeling in the 
aisles, than he by whose skill was compounded the masterpiece 
of confectionery that glittered at the banquet as chief deco- 
ration of the*royal table. Your countrymen came forthwith 
flocking to the palace, desiring to be instructed in my art. 
Scholars had I, almost beyond my power of reckoning; and 
it hath been pretty generally affirmed that to poor Bali bazar 
Sanchez, England is indebted for the introduction of the art 


A LEGEND OF TOTTENHAM CROSS. 


35 


ot comfit-making. Though now and then a jealous rival 
presumed to whisper of me as the ‘Spanish Jew/ none 
dared to gainsay the award when, in my old age, the 
Queen’s gracious Majesty permitted me to retire from Court 
for the enjoyment of my means, retaining to the end of my 
days the title of honor of her royal confectioner.*’ 

“ Nor needs there a better proof, Master Sanchez, of the 
good renown wherewith you have borne it,” interrupted old 
Trackit, “than that the grandniece of your late spouse (who, 
failing issue of your body, you adopted as heir) should have 
been sought in marriage by no less worthy a gentleman 
than Sir Carnaby Savile.” 

“ A fig for Sir Carnaby Savile’” — cried Sanchez, filling 
his glass from the flagon of dry Malaga standing on the table 
beside him. “ Sir Carnaby would have mated with my 
mother, Rachaela, or any maiden or matron of her tribe, 
upon sufficient incitement of gold. No more ! — Enough of 
my heir-at-law and of is virtues. — They are not of such 
weight with me as to obstruct my long-meditated purpose of 
giving to the poor a third portion of substance ; and so 
pleading to the Lord’s mercy for the errors of my fathers, 
and my own levity, if levity there be, in changing the form 
of my devotions. Albeit the worldly, blessings wherewith 
the Almighty hath blessed me, may be esteemed tokens of 
divine forgiveness, there are times when my soul hath been 
exceeding sorrowful with perplexity betwixt the Jewish 
creed to which I was born, the Catholic faith in which I 
was nurtured, and the Protestant church to which I now 
adhere. 

“ If I have sinned, however, in this thing, it hath been 
with good intent, and soon may the blessings of the poor 
confirm the promises of grace to the dying moments of The 
Queen’s Comfit-Maker.”* 

* Balthazar Zanca, or Sanchez, who came to this country in the train 
of Philip II, was the first royal confectioner attached to the English 
court. After being converted to Protestantism, he died in 1602, at his 
mansion at Tottenham Cross, having contributed to the cost of the brick 
cross erected by Dean Wood in 1600, in place of the wooden one then 
standing, and erected, at his sole expense, an almshouse for eight poor 
persons. The residence of Balthazar Sanchez, is now an inn, and the 
almshouses in question, remain in good preservation. 


















- ' 






. 

■ 


' 

. 









THE YOUNG SOLDIER, 


OR 

MILITARY DISCIPLINE. 

BY u THE OLD BACHELOR IN PARIS.” 


The most enthusiastic panegyrist °f t!)? discipliP e an( ^ 
subordination of the British army must, if a man of Christ- 
ian sympathies, connect such painful associations with the 
words, “ military punishment,” that, if accidentally pro- 
nounced in his hearing in the midst of a brilliant field-day 
or royal review, the striking scene forfeits half its charm in 
his eyes. The “ ha ! ha !” of the trumpet breathes discord- 
antly in his ears; and the symmetrical lines of apparently 
mechanical figures present only a mass of deformity and 
confusion. 

It is not so in France. There is nothing revolting to the 
finer feelings of humanity in the process by which the coun- 
try clod is shaped into the trimly, agile, active soldier. In 
admiring the soldier-like array of a regiment on parade or 
marioeu vering in the field, we feel that we are looking upon 
men, and men upon whom the frailties of mortal nature will 
never draw down the chastisement of dogs. 

Among the numerous spectacles that recreate the eye of 
a stranger in Paris, is one that fills the mind of every 
Englishman with painful reflections — i. e., a military degra- 
dation. 


38 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


11 Come with me to the Place Vendome,” cried I, the 
other day, to a country cousin of mine, lately on a visit to 
the French metropolis (a somewhat snivelling philanthropist, 
who arrived here, charged with a catalogue of eleven hun- 
dred questions upon the origin of truth, much after the fash- 
ion of the English philosopher, described in St. Pierre’s 
* Indian Cottage’). “ 1 have something interesting to show 
you.” 

“ I thank you,” he replied. “ I have seen quite as much 
as I desire of the bronze column.” 

“ You were blind else !” cried I, knowing that he had 
been passing and repassing it hourly for ten days previously. 

“ And as to mounting to the top,” he resumed, “ 1 should 
as soon think of climbing the chimney of a steam-engine 1” 

“ Or I either !” was my reply ; “ more particularly since, 
during your sojourn here, you have forced me to survey the 
city from the pinnacle of the temple of Notre Dame, and 
the wing of the telegraph at Montmartre, in spite of my 
declarations of preferring any other mode of rising in the 
world.” 

“ But you are dragging me all this time towards the Place 
Vendome,” quoth my cousin Peter, as we pushed onwards 
in a throng, from which cries of — 11 Allons, allons ! — on de- 
grade ! on degrade /” arose in all directions. 

“ Because l want you to witness a curious exhibition.” 

“ Ay, ay ? In the department of natural history, or of the 
fine arts ?” — 

U lu the simple history of human nature,” was my rejoin- 
der; and methought I heard a contemptuous whistle issue 
from beneath my cousin Peter’s amber spectacles. “ I want 
you to see a military punishment.” 

“ A military punishment ! — God’s life, sir ! for what do 
you take me ? — A man of my sensibility become an eye- 
witness of so disgusting an incident ?” cried he (with a 
countenance such as used to be worn by hundreds of audit- 
ors of Sir Francis Burden’s humanity-harangues of former 
times, graphically describing, previous to a Westminster 
election, the horrors of flogging in the British army). 

Your sensibility is in no manner of danger,” said I, 
quietly resuming my hold of his arm, which the start of my 
cousin Peter had dislodged. “ For the first time in your 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


39 


life, you are about to see a soldier punished like a Christian, 
rather than like a brute.” 

At that moment we entered the Place Vendome; that 
sober, solid, architectural monument which, replete as it is 
with historical associations, has undergone no defeatures from 
the hand of time or the hand of taste, from the epoch when 
the Scotch adventurer, Law, inhabited one of the most 
splendid hotels, obtained at the cost of hundreds of thous- 
ands of French victims, to the present hour. 

Though the bold and salient masks of granite, which still 
smile complacently, or frown majestically over the base- 
ment stories of its noble habitations, are the same which 
smiled or frowned upon the tripping marquises or red-heeled 
abbes of the reign of Louis XV, — upon the carts conveying 
the same to execution after the deposition of Louis XVI, — 
upon the massacres of two revolutions, — upon the military 
ovations of the * empire, and the puppet-show' processions 
arisimr from the restoration of the bi-furcal line of Bourbon, 
their comely faces remain un wrinkled by the lapse of the 
couple of centuries that have played such fantastic tricks 
with the numerous generations of human visages succeeding 
to their original contemporaries. 

On the day in question, an autumnal sun was shining out 
brilliantly on the public offices, — the Quartier General , the 
Chancelleries and others, which occupy so large a portion of 
the old octagon ; distinguished from the hotels garnis , their 
neighbours, only by the discoloured tri-coloured flags pen- 
dent over their several portes cocheres ; — and on the present 
occasion, by the fact that, while the windows of the latter 
were crowded, from entresol to tnansarde, with curious spec- 
tators of all nations, but especially with British, those ol the 
governmental hotels were empty ; the inhabitants (as of all 
public offices all over the world), being sciupulously engag- 
ed in the discharge of their public duties. 

“ A splendid trophy, certainly 1” quoth my cousin Peter, 
glancing, as well as the intensity of sunlight would allow, 
from the base to the summit of the noble column — (which, 
though familiar with it for the last six years, 1 never survey 
without admiration.) “Still I can’t make up my mind to 
the statue of Napoleon ! ’Tis vulgar, sir, immensely vulgar, 
and altogether unworthy the memory of the defunct Empe- 
ror of the most polite nation in Europe.” 


40 


THE YOUNG SOLDrER. 


“ No doubt you would have preferred a Winged Victory, 
or a Fame blowing tier trumpet on a china orange, as on the 
roof of the office of the ‘ Morning Post !’ ” — cried I, with 
indignation ; u or Napoleon himself, perhaps, in his Dal- 
matic robes of estate, looking like a play-actor in a Roman 
cuirass and helmet, like the effigy of General Hollis in 
Westminster Abbey !” 

“ I don’t say but I might,” replied Peter, coolly. 

“ Instead of which, you behold one of the greatest men 
of the greatest era ‘ in his habit as he lived’ to regenerate 
the fallen kingdom of France ! But, stay ! — I may spare 
myself a word of rhetoric. Think you that yonder group of 
peasants, to whom the timber-toed Invalid who accompanies 
them, — some veteran uncle or grandsire, — is pointing out, 
with tears in his eyes, the figure of his old master, — his 
camarade , — his petit caporal , — would have experienced the 
feelings sparkling now in their looks at sight ol the familiar 
‘ Nap,’ in his redingote grise, — if the column of the grande 
armee had been surmounted by a Winged Victory, resemb- 
ling those of the gilt candelabra on an inn cbimneyspiece ; 
or even a man in an imperial robe, looking like Talma in a 
tragedy ? But, hark !’’ 

At that moment, the gay strains of a military band were 
borne towards us ! becoming gradually clearer and clearer, 
and more and more inspiring, till we caught sight of a gal- 
lant company of infantry marching in double quick time 
into the square; saluting the Quartier General as it passed 
W'ith a salutation that seemed addressed rather to the great 
man looking complacently down upon them from the sunny 
surnit of the column. 

Quick as thought, troop now succeeded troop ; sappers 
and miners, hussars, lancers, cuirassiers, dragoons light and 
heavy, companies, in short, from every regiment composing 
the garrison of Paris, each in its best array, pipeclayed and 
burnished, bright and shining, to form a hollow oblong 
square, lining the whole of the southeastern moiety of the 
Place Vendome ; at the head of which was stationed the 
fine bra ss band, whose exciting strains were to impart a stir- 
ring effect to the solemnity of the day. In the centre of 
the square (the men having taken up their ground in time), 
the officers began to form into groups ; while beyond the 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


41 


cordon of vagabonds, a collection of intermingled carriages, 
cabriolets, carts, drays, trucks, and water T tons, — sucb 
as usually beset the outskirts of an English race-course or 
review. 

The scene was a striking one. Both military and civil- 
ians grew eager for the appearance of the delinquents, to 
witness whose degredation from their position in the French 
army, they were assembled ; and, though the loungers in 
the windows above (from the fair young English children, 
clapping their little hands for glee, at the mansarde of the 
Hotel de Loridres, to the stout old Indian General, surveying 
the motley scene from his hospitable residence opposite,) 
might admire the discipline of the troops, or point to the 
glittering arms or white aprons, and tremendous beards of 
the pioneers, the crowd itself seemed strictly absorbed by 
the fate of the forth coming prisoners. 

At length there glided into the centre of the square, — 
amid groups of well-padded generals, with snow-white mus- 
tachios, and well-bronzed colonels, with iron-grey, — two 
spruce figures — “gentlemen in black” — with white cravats 
and varnished boots ; i. e., the judge-advocate and his clerk, 
appointed to read to the prisoners their sentence ; and soon 
afterwards, a sudden rush of the mob (especially of its more 
ragged portion) towards the Quartier General , announced 
that the point of interest lay in that direction. 

“Whither are those blackguards running?’’ — quoth my 
cousin Peter, revolving on his heel . towards the command- 
ant’s residence, as if his boot contained a pivot. 

“To look at blackguards greater than themselves !” [ 
repiled. “ Did you not see the prisoners arrive just now at 
head-quarters, in a panier a salade /” 

“ In a salad basket ?” — cried Peter, aghast, much in Mrs* 
Siddons’s tone of surprise on learning that a mercantile gen- 
tleman of her acquaintance had died in his bureau . “ How 
gat they there, 1 marvel ?” — 

“A panier a salade ,” said I, didactically (with a view to 
his future “ Notes of a Traveller,”) “ is the species of her- 
metically-sealed police-van, in which criminals are conveyed 
| in France to the place of execution, and refractory soldiers 
to the scene of degredation. Look ! — The fellows are 

coming forth from the jjortc-cochere ! — There are two of 
vol. ii. — 5, 


42 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


them, in the centre of the file of soldiers with loaded muskets ; 
to make way for which, the mob falls back on either side, like 
the waves of the Red Sea for the passage of the Israelites. 
See how the gamins , in their ragged blouses, hurry to keep 
up with them, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their sinful 
or sorrowful countenances !” 

We were now in the thick of the throng, pushing and 
elbowing among the rest, with the due allowance of impre- 
cations bestowed upon each fresh effort we made to advance 
towards the column ; immediately fronting which, were sta- 
tioned the general and his etat major before whom the pris- 
oners were to be marched for the hearing of their sentence. 
Hitherto, I had wasted no attention on the individuals whose 
elbows punched my ribs, or whose oaths invaded my ears, 
conceiving them to belong to the vulgar herd of profane 
swearers and punchers. But when, on my cousin Peter’s 
ejaculation of joy at catching sight of the prisoners, one 
deep sigh — a sigh almost amounting to a gasp — burst from 
the bosom of a pale, sickly, young peasant girl, who was 
leaning on the arm of a decrepit woman by my side, 1 could 
not help fearing that they might be more than commonly 
interested in the fate of the delinquents, and I consequently 
moderated my observations. 1 even contrived to obtain for 
them, by pushing aside a great lubberly English schoolboy 
who stood gnawing a hunch of gateau dr Nanterre to my 
right, a peep into the square similar to the one enjoyed side- 
ways by myself and Peier. 

A roll of drums now startled us to look again towards the 
base of the column ; in front of which, midway between 
the two lines of soldiers, stood two miserable-looking: beings, 
clad in an ignominious prison-uniform, the one of grey the 
other of black cloth, with caps to match, and wooden shoes ; 
the long cloak-shaped capote hanging so as to conceal their 
handcuffed wrists, and creati ng a sort of hapless helplessness, 
strangely contrasted with the smart and trim vivacity of 
their former comrades. Mounting guard behind them, 
stood a file of armed light infantry men ; on one side the 
general-commandant ; and, facing them, the spruce judge- 
advocate, holding an open paper in his hand. 

Placed at too great a distance to distinguish by whom the 
word of command was given, 1 saw the two prisoners sud- 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


43 


denly drop on their knees to listen to the bitter sen- 
tence of the law. The sinner in grey, whose criminality 
appeared to be a shade less dark than that of the sinner in 
black, bent down his head as he knelt, and, as far as I 
could judge by his movements tears were falling from his 
eyes ; but the fellow in black, with unequaled audacity, 
laughed outright, and kept up a series of buffooneries, as if 
attempting to excite the risibility of the spectators. 

“ What are they doing?” whispered Peter, whose spec- 
tacles were at fault. 

“ Reciting to the prisoners the sentence of the their court- 
martial, as confirmed by the council of war, previous to un- 
dergoing a certain term of imprisonment. Already, as you 
perceive, the men have been stript of their military uniforms. 
They are now about to be degraded in the sight of the 
garrison of Paris ; and paraded along the line in their prison 
clothes, handcuffed and dragging after them each a cannon 
ball fastened by a chain round their middle. Expelled the 
service, they must take leave, as it were, of their comrades, 

under these humiliating degradations.” 

t£ The impudent rascal in black seems as bold as brass 1” 
cried Peter. “ See ! he has risen from his knees, and they 
are blindfolding him, while the boulet is being fastened on ! 
Parade him along the line ? Why the fellow won’t stir an 
inch 1” 

“ Look again !” cried I. And Peter had the satisfaction 
of seeing him impelled onwards smartly, by a soldier holding 
him by°the arm on either side ; and soon the clanking of 
his chain and the rumbling of the boulet against the stones 
as it dragged after him, asserted that he was in rapid mo- 
tion. At that moment, not a syllable was breathed along 
the ranks. “ Attention” was the word, — and the word 
itself was audible from one end of the Place Vendome to the 
other, distinct as the striking of a bell. 

Once and again the black figure, with blindfolded eyes, 
shuffled along° in its sabots ; halting at length before the 
column, there to abide during the punishment of his compan- 
ion. But the moment the poor lad in grey was harnessed 
with his boulet, a murmer of commiseration arose among the 
throng. He was so young ! his countenance was so down- 
cast |°and, though the color and fashion of his prison-gar- 


44 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


ment announced that his transgression was of a very differ- 
ent nature from that of his companion, entailing only three 
months’ detention in a military prison instead of the 
hulks awaiting the criminal in black (who was under 
sentence for theft, with attempt to murder the corporal 
by whom he was taken into custody,) the crowd, and more 
especially the female part of it, seemed of opinion that he 
was too severely punished. 

Proud, even in his broken-heartedness, he evidently 
scorned to be dragged along like a malefactor; for, though 
still retaining his downcast countenance, so that his swollen 
eyelids were scarcely discernible, he walked firm and erect ; 
and the boulet moved steadily at his heels, instead of being 
jerked from stone to stone, as by the movements of his re- 
fractory fellow-prisoner. Grey mantle was back again at 
the column, in half the time the felon had accomplished his 
ignominious task. 

And now, another prolonged roll of the drums announced 
that a portion of the solemnity of the day was at an end. The 
boulets were taken off; and while the two prisoners, closely 
flanked and strongly guarded, were posted immediately in 
front of the column, so as to form a prominent mark, the 
band struck up once more its inspiriting strains, and marched 
past them in quick time ; followed in succession by the 
whole complement of troops assembled, successively broken 
up into companies. That was the most impressive moment ! 
the two wretched-looking beings standing there in their in- 
famy, to listen to the cheering measures to which they had 
so often marched 'in the performance of their duty, and be- 
holding their comrades, in all the bright array of discipline, 
proceed cheerily along, while they stood shivering in their 
sabots, not daring to cast a look in their faces !— Sunk as 
they were, they had still to bear a heavier penalty of their 
fault ! 

“ Just so can one conceive Lucifer, after his fall, con- 
templating the upward flight of legions of free and happy 
angels !” — quoth Peter, who was beginning to snivel. 
“ Alas ! poor fellows ! — brave soldiers, perhaps, as any here, 
yet about to be debarred the blessed light of Heaven, and 
the free use of their limbs. This sunshine is the last that 
will warm them for months; and, instead of yonder glad- 

¥ £3 


THE YOUNG SOLDIEll. 


45 


some music, the death-like silence of prison solitude is de- 
creed them !” — 

Cousin Peter was prosing on, or rather poeticising, to his 
heart’s content, when his thin small voice was overpowered 
by a general shouting from the populace in our vicinity for 
“ La marchande ! La marchande /” meaning one of those 
itinerant venders of filtered water calling itself iced water), 
a dozen of which were scattered along the outskirts of the 
throng, with their gay fountains and plated goblets; as they 
invariably are in Paris, wherever two or three hundred are 
gathered together. “ A cup of water!” was loudly called 
for. Somebody had fainted. 

I now remembered with compunction that, intent upon 
exhibiting to my cousin Peter the minutiae of a ceremonial 
so interesting to every friend of humanity, I had forgotten to 
take care, or even heed, of the two poor women at one time 
stationed by my side ; and now that the crowd had changed 
its form to yield to the movements of the military (who were 
wheeling off in companies, and taking up their position on 
the opposite side of the square, till the prisoners should have 
marched back again into the general’s quarters, and they 
were at liberty to march themselves back to their own), 
they were nowhere to be seen. My mind misgave me that 
it was for one of them water was required. But, as is usual 
in case of a swoon, the mob pressed round the faint ing per- 
son to shut out the fresh air with such assiduous humanity 
as to intercept all means of satisfying my curiosity. 

“ Look, look !” cried Peter, far more interested in the 
aspect of the military prisoners than in the sprinkling of a 
young lady’s face with filtered water, “ how daring the as- 
pect of that hardened ruffian, how humbled the looks of his 
companion ! There is plenty of room. We can advance 
nearer to them now.” 

And the staid prim old bachelor was actually trotted off 
towards the column, in the wake of a tribe of gamins of the 
lowest description, who were cheering the impudent offen- 
der with cries worthy of the intellect of their class — of 
c; Vive la Marsellais /” 

As we drew towards the column, a ragged hat half full of 
gros sous , and smelling of halfpence and humanity enough to 
poison a lord, was tendered to us for our subscription for the 

vnr.. rr. ri* 


46 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 


prisoners — such being the charitable custom of the mob, in 
favour of one of their order brought to condign punishment. 

After we had “ taken out twopence and given them’ 7 to 
the hat-bearer, we were suffered to proceed. But on ar- 
riving within view of the twain, there was something so 
revolting in the dare-devil look of the one, something so 
touching in the humbled despondency of the other, that I 
was fain to retreat. 1 could as soon have looked upon the 
mangled back of an English soldier writhing under the lash, 
as upon the meek offender ! 

“ What was the younger soldier’s fault ?” said I, having 
contrived to make my way to the iron railing of the column, 
so as to accost that man of renown, that Malvolio in a 
worsted epaulet, Corporal Diakon, alias the “ Capilaine de 
la Colonne ,” the non-commissioned officer invested by gov- 
ernment with the charge of the column. 

“ Un delit plusque que capital ! a breach of military 
discipline/’ growled the stanch soldier (with whom, Deo 
volentc , I mean to make the British public better acquainted.) 

“ Desertion ?” persisted 1, remembering the penalty en- 
tailed in England by this heinous transgression. 

But even Corporal Diakon’s sonorous voice was at that 
moment rendered inaudible by a piercing shriek from some 
woman attempting to press her way through the crowd to- 
wards the prisoners, ere they were marched off to prison. 

“ Let me pass, let me pass, or 1 may never see his face 
again !” cried the poor old woman, my recent neighbour, 
apparently roused from her depression to attempt some des- 
perate effort ; and still drenched with the water which kind 
but officious Samaritans had showered on her young com- 
panion, as she lay insensible. “ Let me pass, if you have 
the hearts of Christians 1” 

The pitying throng ceded to her struggles, and made way 
for her to approach the prisoner. But, alas ! the file of 
soldiers with their loaded muskets were stationed there ex- 
pressly to prevent all intercourse between the criminals and 
the crowd. 

“ Only one word with Victor, only one I” gasped the 
agonized old creature, still pressing onwards. 

“ ’Tis the mother of the young girl who has fainted, the 
bonne aim&, no doubt, of one of the prisoners,” murmured 
the gamins who stood near me. 


the young soldier. 


47 


“ At least let me look upon his face 1” — faltered the wo- 
man, wringing her hands. 

“ Arriere /” was all the answer of the soldiers, stiff as 
ramrods, and strengthened in stanchness of subordination by 
witnessing the solemnity of the morning. 

“ Victor, Victor!” — screamed the despairing woman, on 
finding herself thus repulsed; while murmurs of “Shame, 
shame !” began to arise among the ragged regiment of ga- 
mins . 

“ Just then I caught sight of the face of the two prison- 
ers, whom the lower stature of the poor woman excluded 
from her view; and there was no difficulty in deciding to 
which of them her visit was addressed. Her voice, her pit- 
eous exclamations, had reached their ears ; and the face of 
the grey man was instantly overspread by a vivid flush, 
which as quickly gave place to ashy paleness. From the 
moment his comrades had marched past as if bidding him 
adieu forever, he had fallen into a sort of sullen stupor. 
But now big tears gathered anew under his eyelids. 

“Speak — speak, — you who are near to him !” she cried 
distractedly addressing a few, who, like myself, seemed to 
overtop the heads of the soldiers. “Tell him that his moth- 
er and sister have struggled up from Auvergne to see him. 
Tell him she is innocent — tell him Manon is innocent ! — 
Say, that while he was incurring this dreadful sentence, by 
absenting himself without leave from his regiment to seek 
after his sister at the Count’s chateau, she was safe with her 
father at Riom. — She is ill — very ill ! — Bid him send her 
his forgiveness. Say that his old mother pledges her soul 
for the innocence of her poor caluminated girl ! — O sirs ! 
speak to Victor ! — See ! they are marching off and he has 
not heard me ! He will never know the truth. They are 
bearing him to prison, and he will be tormented night and 
day by the thoughts of his sister’s shame. Will no one 
follow him ? Will no one speak to him ? Will no one— 
no one— pity me and help me?” 

“ Par ici, ma bonne ! Come back to the young wo- 
man !” panted a breathless gamin , plucking her by the 
sleeve. 

“ Quick, quick ! the girl is dying !” shouted a second, 
dragging her along. 


48 


THE YOUNG SOLDIER, 


u Let the poor soul alone,” interposed a third, in a lower 
voice ; “I tell you it is too late. Site is dead.” 

At that moment, the gay military band, breathing the 
strain of the “ Cachucba ” witj? all its brass, wheeled light- 
somely past ! 

u And you told me that rny sensibility had nothing to 
fear in witnessing this accursed scene !” sighed, or rather 
sobbed my cousin Peter, after we had assisted to guard the 
body of the soldier’s sister from the trampling of the throng, 
until the arrival of the commissaire de police to draw out bis 
jjroces verbal. “ I vow I would not have to go through the 
spectacle of that old peasant woman’s despair again to be 
made a fellow of the Royal Society !” 

“ You must not suppose such things of frequent occur- 
rence here,” said I,— scarcely able to articulate. 

“ I wonder,” said Peter, stopping short, “ whether any 
one was considerate enough to inform the poor lad that his 
sister was lying dead in the Place, and his mother half dis- 
tracted by her side?”— 

“ Let us hope not !” replied I, with a heavy sigh. “ The 
young soldier has had misery enough for to-day, in under- 
going his sentence. 1 am even satisfied with my own por- 
tion, as a spectator of the course of Military Disci- 
pline !” 


A LUCKY DOG. 


BY U THE OLD BACHEROR IN PARIS. ” 


My friend Leonard D’Egoville is one of the happiest 
rascals of my acquaintance ; but there is a provoking self- 
satisfaction in the fellow’s looks, which is apt to put the rest 
of the world out of humor with his prosperity. D’Egoville 
is always triumphant, ever exulting; — overpowering one 
with his selfish sense of enjoyment, and perpetual demands 
on one’s admission of inferiority. Why nor, for instance, 
allow me to eat my mutton cutlet in peace, without inform- 
ing me that yesterday he dined on chevreuill Why not let 
me enjoy my humble dish of larks, without boasting, with a 

[ punch in the ribs, that last night he supped on heccajicos 1 
For my part, I can contentedly swallow my paltry pint of 
Pouillij under the acacia trees of the “ Vendanges de Bour- 
\ gogne,” without insulting the portcur d'eau 1 see making 
wry faces at the nearest guinguelte over his vin de Surene , 
by enlarging upon its delicate flavour ; and, methinks, I 
♦ have a right to expect similar forbearance on the part of the 
chucking M. D’Egoville, when he comes parading to me 
about his iced St. Peray or choice Sauterne. 1 am not 
more envious than my neighbours ; yet I swear there are 
moments when it would be a relief to me to see my friend 
Leonard receive a box on the ear, in retribution of his 
exultations. 

For several years past, D’Egoville has been in the enjoy- 
ment of a capital bachelor’s apartment on the Boulevard des 
Capucines, and a charming villa at Montmorency; and I 
admit that he would be an ungrateful dog were he not to 


50 


A LUCKY DOG. 


thank Heaven, morning, evening, and at odd times between, 
for this auspicious ordering of his destinies. 

But he has no right to tantalize a poor wretch like my- 
self, by bragging of the coolness of his cellars, the marrow- 
like softness of his sofa-cushions, the richness of his furni- 
ture, or the smoothness of his parquets, 

“ This is a cheering sight,” said I, on meeting him the 
other day at the exhibition of the arts and manufactures of 
France, now open in the Champs Elysees, “ a most grati- 
fying thing for Louis Philippe and the French nation, to 
perceive how vast a progress has been made during the last 
five years in the texture of their cloths, the growth of their 
wool, and the temper of their cutlery. The jury will find it 
a difficult task, I conceive, to award their medals and prizes 
among so many meritorious competitors.” 

“What the devil do I care for the jury, its medals or 
prizes ?” exclaimed D’Egoville, with a self-complacent 
laugh. u I come here, my dear fellow, solely on my own 
errand. Happening to look yesterday at my banker’s book, 
and to find the balance, as usual, on the right side, i in 
stantiy drew a checque Tor a few thousand francs, with the; 
view of adding more comforts to my bachelor’s hall yonder, 
at Montmorency. For a man who has a little money to 
throw away, this place is really a resource ! One sees all 
the new inventions, all the last improvements, without the 
bore of driving from shop to shop, to be solicited to death ; 
and after all, perhaps flummeried into the purchase of a ser- 
vice of plate or a boot-jack of last year’s fashion. Look at 
this magnificent stained crystal from Alsace ! 1 have just 

ordered myself a most exquisite little cabaret for my eau 
sucree , white embossed with garnet colour, for two hundred 
francs. I should have paid half as much again for some 
rococo machine or other of the same kind, had I contented 
myself with a glance at the Palais Royal. Again, yonder 
magnificent carpet of Sallandrouze’s with the peacock wav- 
ing his gorgeous tail as a centre piece, I have bought it for 
my drawing-room for two thousand francs, instead of closing 
for the quizzical Aubusson for which 1 was bargaining with 
my upholsterer; I am now on my road to the next gallery, 
to settle about some carved ebony consoles. I can’t make 
up my mind exactly which I like best — those with or with 


A L&CKY DOG. 


51 


“The difference of price between the two must be con- 
siderable,” I inadvertently observed. 

u Ay, ay — that isflthe point always uppermost in the 
thoughts of some people. Luckily, a thousand or two of 
francs more or less in the cost, signifies very little to me ! 
All I have to consider is, which kind will harmonize best 
with the new Venetian hangings which Lesage is putting up 
in my saloon. And by the way, what think you of those 
mechanical beds yonder, with their reading-desk, lamp- 
stand, and table-service, appearing and disappearing by the 
touch of a spring? I have some thoughts of getting one 
against my first fit of the gout. Even in this hot weather it 
is pleasant enough to be waited upon, without being offen- 
ded by the sight of one footmen’s shining faces.” 

“Certainly, certainly,” said 1, striving to get away, and 
follow my own devices in the examination of the curious 
works of art and science abounding in the gallery. 

“Why, where the deuce are you hurrying?” cried 
Leonard D’Egoville ; “what can you want here?” he con- 
tinued with a supercilious glance from my seedy coat to one 
of Aucoq’s gorgeous dressing-cases of embossed gold. 

“ Not much, indeed !” replied I, forcing a laugh. But 
there is some consolation in examining and philosophizing 
upon yonder anatomical model of an unsophisticated man 
with its demonstration of veins and arteries, proving all the 
sons of Adam to be condemned to the same organization ; 
in contradistinction to the various displays of finery, lace, 
embroidery, and brocade, which furnish the worldly dis- 
tinction between my lord and his valet, between the Croesus 
and the beggar !” 

My irony was thrown away. 

“Brocade? embroidery?” cried D’Egoville, catching at 
the only sounds comprehensible to him in my harangue ; 
I “ where the devil are they ? I have seen only those devoted 
to the service of the altar, which are being bought up in 
waggon-loads for the new churches. There is nothing 
worth speaking of in the way of embroidery that I am 
aware of.” 

“ Not even the exquisite court-train and cushion marked 
with the initials of the young Queen of England ?” cried I, 
! with indignation. 


52 


A LUCKY DOG. 


“ As I told you before, I am in search only of objects 
applicable to my own use. What are court-trains to me 1 1 
But, by the way,” continued Leonard (pointing to a stall we i 
were passing, covered with troupets and perruques of every 
size, shape, sort, and shade, betwixt black, chinchilli, and 
hoary silver, the full-bottom and the astucious tour de tete), 
iC even you might surely find things here adapted to your 
wants and pocket. See, my poor friend ! cauls of very 
decent aspect for your bald crow n, at ten francs a-piece ! — 
And look beyond, — superb ratelitrs of teeth for three louis 
a-set, or half-a-crown by the single grinder ! — Ears, too, in 
gold, silver, or caoutchouc, permanent or temporary, with 
acoustic tubes, affixable at pleasure. And, as I live, glass 
eyes of every hue, from sparkling black to sentimental blue. 
But you enjoy, 1 fancy, the use of both your eyes, eh ? — 
your imperfect vision is merely the result of your time of 
life? — Well — no need to despair! Here is an optician 
who promises that, by the use of a pair of five-franc spec- 
tacles, you shall be able to read diamond editions by candle- 
light.” 

“ There are also yonder crutches for the lame, iron band- 
ages for the deformed, and even strait-waistcoats for the in- 
sane,” cried I, enraged beyond my patience by his insolent 
egotism. “ But I flatter myself 1 stand in need of neither ; 
and am thankful to Heaven that I am able to admire the 
progress of human ingenuity, without reference to my per- 
sonal w'ants or deficiencies.” 

“ Why, by Jupiter, I do believe you are affronted !” 
cried D’Egoville. “My dear fellow, ten million of pardons ! 
Perhaps 1 am a little too apt to overlook the raws and sores 
of other people ! Yet I have certainly no reason to dispar- 
age those arising from — from a deficiency ' in the financial 
department,” said he, afraid of again offending me. “ Only 
a few years ago, l used to come here myself with wdstful 
eyes and watering mouth, like the chimney-sweepers who 
thaw their noses in hard weather against the panes of the 
pastry-cook’s shops. I did not then dare so much as lift my 
ambition to a cane and tassel, by way of equipage ; — I who, 
this very season, have launched a couple of carriages and a 
fourgon /” 

I was amazed. Though the bragging propensities of 


A LUCKY DOG. 


53 


Leonard D’Egoville ought to have forewarned me of the 
parvenu , his hardness of heart had caused me to set him 
down in my mind as one born and nurtured in the sunshine 
of prosperity. So little had he learned mercy, that I could 
not conceive he had ever suffered persecution. 

“ You look surprised,” cried he, detecting my amaze- 
ment. “ Did 1 never confide to you the strange origin of 
my fortune? Let me see — when we first made our ac- 
quaintance crossing St. Bernard, four years ago — ” 

“ You were, as now, in the enjoyment of wealth and in- 
dependence,” said I. “ During the illness following the ac- 
cident which then befel me, — me, a poor wayfarer, — you 
were lavish in your offers of assistance — ” 

“Pooh, pooh ! I have heard enough of that — it was not 
of that we were talking,” — cried D"Egoville. “ I was 
telling you, or wanting to tell you, how, from a poor devil 
in arrears for the rent of his fusty lodging in the Quartier 
Latin, I achieved my present position. The story is a long 
one, and would do me little honor in the ears of the idlers 
of the Exposition, should it chance to be overheard. Come 
down, therefore, with me to Montmorency, — my Pelham is 
at the door, — come down with me, I say to Montmorency, 
and dine and sleep ; and you shall have the narrative of my 
chequered life, including a description of the memorable 
temple of Esculapius, — Vhopital des chiens, — which was the 
making of me.” 

“You kept a dog-hospital 1” cried I, inexpressibly aston- 
ished. 

“ Not exactly,” replied Leonard, more diverted, however, 
than indignant at the accusation. “ Trust me, 1 had not 
wherewithal to entertain any establishment half so costly. 
But 1 see that your curiosity is excited. Let us be a 
going. 1 dine at six precisely, — ay, precisely, even to a 
friend.” 

“ I am sorry I cannot accept your obliging invitation,” 
said I, drawing up. “ Although I lodge in a cinquieme, and 
the meal awaiting me is only my daily soupe and bouilli , 
the good womau who prepares it would be apt in her anxi- 
ety to go and interrogate the police, should her metho- 
dical master commit so strange a breach of routine as to 
VOL. ii — 6 


54 


A LUCKY DOG. 


tarry from home for board and bed, without having duly 
apprized her.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! We will take the Rue Miromenil 
in our way cut of town, instead of crossing through Les 
Tbermes ; and you may at once apprize your Megara, and 
snatch up a change of linen, in case you are tempted to re- 
main with me to morrow,” cried D’Egoville. “Come, come ! 
we must not lose our time. A good entree waits for no man; 
and our filets de caneion will be spoiled, if you stand hem- 
ing and ha-ing thus.” 

Though I did my utmost to evade the engagement, be- 
tween threats, promises, and cajolements, Monsieur D’Ego- 
ville took such forcible possession of my mind and body, that 
we had reached St. Ouen before 1 was half reconciled to my 
inconsistency of purpose. 

“ How full of historical reminiscences are all the environs 
of Paris 1” — cried D’Egoville, with a sentimental air, as we 
drove within view of the aristocratic parks of St. Ouen ; 
“betwixt the great De Stael, Du Cayla, and Ternaux of 
Merino-sheep renown, — how many illustrious names connect 
themselves with the history of St. Ouen ! But I forget — I 
have promised to talk to you of a person less illustrious — of 
my obscure self.” 

And as he spoke, he began to caress his crossed leg with 
an air of complacency, implying that, in his own estimation, 
Charlemagne was a foot-boy to him ! 

“ I have a tale to tell which, as my coachman has no 
more ear for Christian discourse than one of the brutes he is 
driving, can never be more safely adventured than here on 
the Citizen King’s highway,” he resumed. “ In the first 
place, know that, high as 1 have ascended in the scale of 
society, your humble servant was born in the confined 
sphere of a porter’s lodge. The cordon , my natural inheri- 
tance, was neither that of the St. Esprit nor the Golden 
Fleece; but simply that cord by which my tender mother 
let in and out the visitors to an obscure house in the Rue 
Vendome. Ay — shrug your shoulders ! — gay and brilliant 
as you behold me, 1 am actually a native of that most hum- 
drum quarter of Paris — the Marais! Superior to, or per- 
haps only ashamed of, her humble vocation, my mother 
announced herself to me, as I grew to boy’s estate, as the 


A LUCKY DOG. 


55 


widow ol a captain of the grande armee ; in witness where- 
of, she kept among the edibles in her corner cupboard an 
old ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and a bottle of Eau de 
Cologne cast in the effigy of Napoleon, — incontestable 
evidence ol my parentage, to which 1 did due homage every 
time I paid my devoirs to her Gruyere cheese. 1 have my 
doubts whether the lodgers of the old den to which her 
services were attached were equally respectful ; for I remem- 
ber that my venerable parent was apt to treat them (behind 
their backs) with sovereign contempt ; from the retired 
clock-maker, whose family occupied the first floor, to the 
employes in the marche aux vieux linges , who lodged on the 
sixierne. Of the horde who dealt out their five-franc pieces 
to her on New Year’s Day, and their discontents, the re- 
maining three hundred and sixty-four, there was only one 
whom Madame Goville — ” 

“Goville?” — I indiscreetly reiterated. 

cc Ay, my good sir. Since I have consented to deliver 
my round unvarnished tale, I may as well admit that only 
the two latter syllables of my name are derived from the 
ghost of the captain of the grande armee , or from his soi- 
disant widow. To resume, — where you so unnecessarily 
suspended my story, — there was only one among the lodg- 
ers especially recommended by my mother to my assiduity 
and forbearance. 

“ ‘Be sure,’ she used to say, as she sat with her Roman 
nose crooked into the stocking she was mending (for, in 
spite of the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, Madame Goville 
stooped to follow the calling of a ravaudeuse ,) ‘ be sure, 
Leonard, never to pass on the stairs or in the entry without 
a salutation, either Mademoiselle Brigitte, the maiden lady 
on the second floor, or la mere Pinson, her woman of all- 
work. Of all the abiders in this dog-hole of a house, they, 
my dear son, are to be respected. So little trouble as they 
give, and such handsome vails ! — two three-livre crowns on 
the first of January, and another on Mademoiselle’s fete-day; 
— and yet in bed every night of the blessed year by eight 
o’clock," and not a single visitor from one year’s end to an- 
other, either to mistress or maid, to take the needle out of 
my hand, or give me the trouble of saying “ At home,” or 
li Not at home !” 


56 


A LUCKY DOG. 


“ ‘ To be sure, there is the nuisance of opening the gate 
three times a day for her beast of a poodle w hen la mere 
Pinson brings him dow n to the street ; to say nothing of my 
anxieties in keeping the peace betwixt Mademoiselle Brigitte 
and Madame Alain, the old lady on the first floor, who 
sw'ears that her mignionette and nasturtiums are ruined by 
the noisy beast of a cockatoo that hangs out of ma’amselles 
window.* 

“ ‘ Say what you will against ma’amselle’s cockatoo, 
mother,’ cried I, ‘ but not a word against poor Mouton ! 
Mouton is the cleverest dog and the best creature in the 
world.’ 

“ c Ay, ay, — as troublesome and mischievous as thyself,’ 
was the rejoinder o( the captain’s widow. * But no matter ; 
leave the poodle to itself, Nanard, and the poodle will leave 
thee . But whatever thou dost, be sure never to lose an op- 
portunity of obliging or serving Mademoiselle Brigitte or 
her maid. I have heard it whispered by a little bird who 
never sings false, that mademoiselle (who has not a relation 
upon earth) is inscribed in the bank of France as owmer of 
twice as large an amount as the richest proprietor in the Rue 
de Vendome !” 

“ You will admit that Madam Goville, good woman, took 
a stupid way of interesting the feelings of a child ? — The 
bank of France was a mystery beyond my powers of de- 
velopement ; and it w'as chiefly as the mistress of Mouton 
that 1 felt inclined to love, honor, or obey Mademoiselle 
Brigitte Duval. For Mouton was the joy of my days, the 
dream of my nights. — A huge, woolly, rusty-coated poodle, 
unanimously kicked and cuffed by its mistress’s fellow-lodg- 
ers whenever occasion offered, — the poor beast bestowed 
upon myself, his solitary friend, the rich treasure of his af- 
fections. Harrassed out of his life by the exaction of the 
two old women, to whom his antics afforded the sole diver- 
sion of their unincidental life, Mouton was only too rejoiced 
to escape from the stifling atmosphere of Mademoiselle de 
Brigitte’s apartment to frolic wdth me in the narrow court- 
yard ; or, when opportunity favoured our escape, to play 
truant with me for a course among the chesnut trees of the 
Place Royale. Right happy were we, Mouton and I, when 
we could fly together ; — ay, even at the risk of a good 


A LUCKY DOG. 


57 


beating a-piece on our return, from those in authority over 
us. 

All my regard for Mouton, however, did not prevent my 
perpetually incurring the displeasure of his rnisstress. A 
spell seemed set upon my endeavors to recommend myself 
to Mademoiselle Brigitte Duval’s favor. I it was who ad- 
mitted into the house the identical brindled cat by which 
the hopes of her first brood of canaries were demolished. The 
cherry-stone over which la mere Pinson’s luckless foot slip- 
ped one summer morning, thereby originating a fracture which 
might have cost her her life, and did cost her lady a fortune 
in doctor’s bills, was traced to a pound of bigarreaux which 
1 had purchased and devoured on the staircase, by way of 
giving a lesson to Mouton in fetching and carrying with the 
stones. — In short, whatever evil chanced to the lady or the 
lady’s maid, Leonard Goville was sure to be at the bottom 
of it ; — luckily enough for me — for to insure my absence 
six days out of the seven, Mademoiselle Brigitte finally con- 
sented to unclose her purse-strings to pay for my schooling. 
But for my indefatigability in parading poor Mouton on the 
landing-place every morning, with his mistress’s purloined 
parasol for a musket, to go through his manual exercise, I 
might have remained guiltless of the common rudiments of 
learning. 

" I was almost repaid for the afflictions of exile from my 
illiterate home by the howl of rapture wherewith Mouton 
used to greet me every Sunday, the moment my well-known 
step was heard on the stairs. Mademoiselle Brigitte grum- 
|: bled, indeed, that even this Sabbatical release from the la- 

( bors of learning should be conceded to me. But on that 
point I was firm ; swearing that, unless allowed to return 
home on Sundays, to pay my respects to my beloved parent 
and beloved poodle, 1 would not go to school at all. 

“ Three years had I been toiling through the labyrinth of 
: letters, and the clumsy booby of ten was stretching into the 
lanky youth of thirteen ; when my domestic happiness was 
overcast by perceiving that my faithful friend no longer en-> 
oyed the blessings of vigorous health. In proportion as my 
ratne became elongated, that of the pampered poodle grew 
globose ; and, instead of the saltatorial salutations where* 
vith he was wont to denote his joy at my weekly arrival* 

YOL. II. — 6* 


58 


A LUCKY DOG. 


he began to find some difficulty in wheezing his way to the 
head of the staircase to do me honor. It could not be old 
age; for Mouton, when introduced into my mother’s lodge 
five years before in the apron of Madame Pinson, was a 
mere puppy — round, white, helpless, and featureless, as if 
rolled out of a filbert-nut. So sudden a progress of decay 
must clearly arise from inward disease ; and tears burst on 
more than one occasion from my eyes, on learning that Mou- 
ton was given over by the faculty as under the influence of 
a confirmed liver-complaint ! It was a tender subject to 
Mademoiselle Brigitte ! — She, who had witnessed without a 
pang the extinction of her numerous family, could not sum- 
mon courage to contemplate the day when Mouton was to 
be removed from her. 

“ ‘ They have fed the poor dog to death, and there’s an 
end of it,’ was the reply of Captain Goville’s widow, when 
I appealed to her sympathy. 

“ ‘ No, no, not an end of it !’ cried I. ‘ Something might 
surely be done. Abounding as this great metropolis does in 
scientific practitioners, Mouton might yet he saved. Yes, 
mother, yes, madam, Mouton might yet be saved.’ 

“ 1 1 shouldn’t care a pinch of snuff if he were strung up 
to yonder clothes’-lme !’ was the hard-hearted rejoinder of 
M adame Goville. c But true it is that the grand dog-doctor, 
who came last week all the way from the Champs Ely sees 
in his own carriage for a consultation, swore that the dog 
had a dozen years’ life in him. if his mistress would only 
consent to put him upon a regiment.’ 

“ ‘ Into a regiment?’ said I, somewhat astonished. 

“ ‘ No, child ! To starve him till the bones come through 
his skin. That’s what the faculty call putting upon a regi- 
ment. Yet, for all I can argue, or the doctor devise, Made- 
moiselle persists in hilling him with kindness. The last 
gentleman who attended him, from the famous Hojjital des 
Chicris in the Rue de Clicby, swore that if they went on 
stuffing the poor beast, Mouton hadn’t a month to live ; and 
then,’ continued my mother, with a grim smile, : if they like 
they may stuff him for good and all.’ 

“ She ought not to have jested, for the tears were coursing 
each other down her son’s innocent nose. Escaping from 
her presence, I hurried to the Rue de Clichy. 1 resolved to 


A LUCKY DOG. 


59 


| 


know the worst. I chose to see the Dupuytren of the 
canine race, and learn the fate of Mouton from scientific lips. 

“ Did you ever happen to notice in your wanderings,” 
continued D’Egoville, turning abruptly towards me, “just 
opposite to the gates of the Tivoli Gardens, and perfumed 
by the fragrant atmosphere of its lilacs and roses, an elegant 
architectural-looking edifice, the floor of which is surmount- 
ed by the effigy of a dog ? That airy structure is the 
Hopilal des Chiens , I say, £ the’ par excellence , to distin- 
guish it from the numerous dog-holf itals which drain the 
purses of the dowagers of Paris. After a timid ring at the 
bell, I was admitted into the bureau of the establishment ; 
a handsome room, furnished with illustrated editions of the 
best physiological authorities, and a desk, on which lay the 
day-book and ledgers of the hospital. It had not struck 
eleven ; till which hour I knew that Dr. IVlirabeau received 
patients, previous to setting forth in his carriage for his daily 
consultations. 

“ I had not yet ventured to take a seat, when the doctor 
appeared, a smug, smiling, grey-headed gentleman, habited 
in professional black, and wearing diamond studs in his shirt, 
and at his button-hole the riband of the national order. He 
entered, rubbing his hands with the self-gratulating air pe- 
culiar to his obnoxious species. 

“ In a few' w'ords I explained my errand. 

“ £ Let me see !’ said he, taking from his pocket a richly 
gilt morocco pocket-book, containing notes of his consulta- 
tions. 1 Last week, you say ; a grey poodle in the Rue de 
Vendome? Exactly. Here we have him ! £C Mouton, aged 
five years and three months, the property of Mademoiselle 
Brigitte Duval.” A very serious case, sir,’ he continued, 
shaking his head. ‘Complete derangement of the epigas- 
tric region, hepatic inflammations, irregular action of the 
pulse, altogether an important complication. Nevertheless, 
I have hope. Removed from the disadvantages under 
which he at present labours, my patient might still live to 
be a delight to the Duval family. But it is one of the mis- 
fortunes, sir, which beset the gentlemen of my profession, 
that our best endeavours are counteracted by the injudicious 
indulgence of the ladies and gentlemen to whom we look 
for the reward of our labours. If the individual in question, 


60 


A LUCKY DOG. 


for instance, were to be only one month an inmate of my es- 
tablishment, l would answer for restoring him to perfect 
health.’ 

“ With a heavy sigh (for 1 was painfully aware that, 
sooner than part with poor Mouton, even for a day, Made- 
moiselle Brigitte would resign her right hand), I now put 
into Monsieur Mirabeau’s hand the two-franc piece, which I 
understood to be his fee, and received, in return, a low bow, 
and the tariff of his establishment. 

“ ‘Monsieur would perhaps like to inspect the hospital?’ 
said he, accompanying me forth ; and, on my eager assent, 
he conducted me across a yard sanded with scrupulous 
neatness, and adorned with orange-trees and other flowering 
shrubs, to an airy building, divided into several wards; one 
partitioned into kennels, others having commodious beds, 
while a third consisted in rows of perches and cages, as an 
infirmary for birds. All the patients with which they were 
filled, both bipeds and quadrupeds, bestowed on my con- 
ductor most affectionate greetings, which were requited by 
Monsieur Mirabeau with an air of tender affability, such as 
may have been assumed by Bonaparte in visiting the lazar- 
etto of Jaffa ; or by Louis Philippe, when parading the 
Hotel Dieu, after the revolution of July. From the asth- 
matic pug, panting on its straw, to the opera dancer’s deli- 
cate Italian greyhound, about to be in the straw, all present 
turned their eyes gratefully on the benefactor of their race. 

“ ‘ They love me, poor little animals !’ said Monsieur le 
Docteur, with a magnanimous glance along the W'ard. ‘ One 
of my most exquisite rewards is the gratitude of the little 
beings committed to my care.’ 

“ As w'e re-crossed the yard he was accosted by a minc- 
ing grisette, elegantly attired, with inquiries after the health 
of 1 cettz pauvre Zepkyrine .’ 

“ ‘ Zephyrine V reiterated the doctor, in an inquiring tone. 

The griffon of Madame la Baronne de Montg°las.’ 

“ ‘ Allow me to consult my registers,’ replied the Mons- 
ieur Mirabeau, hurrying into his sanctum, while 1 waited 
with the waiting-maid at the door, and saw him, spectacles 
on nose, examine his books of entry. 

Dkad !’ was the result of the investigation ; a mono- 
syllable that called forth a torrent of ejaculation from the 


A LUCKY DOG. 


61 


soubrette. Monsieur Mirabeau proceeded to read aloud, 
‘ Zephyrine, a white griffon , introduced into the establish- 
ment on the 13th of May ; died on the 27th. Oui, made- 
moiselle! On Wednesday last, my little patient breathed 
her last. According to custom, I performed the autopsy of 
the body. The disease proved to be inflammation of the 
brain, precisely as I hinted to Madame la Baronne, on first 
pointing out to her that the fits of her griffon were of an 
epileptic nature.’ ^ 

“ Leaving the doctor and the lady to discuss the diseases 
of Zephyrine together, I hastened to reflect upon the doom 
of a being more interesting to my affections. But already 
my determination was taken. 

“ That evening, my dear sir, Mouton disappeared from 
the Rue de Vendome. I leave you to guess the astonish- 
ment, anguish, and surmises produced by this inexplicable 
disparition. Though incapable, by reason of his malady, of 
descending the staircase, he was gone ; either the victim of 
malice, or the prey of cupidity, either assassinated by a fel- 
low lodger, or stolen for the sake of his skin. A handsome 
reward was instantly offered for his recovery, and the walls 
of the Marais were covered with handbills. In vain ! 

“ I leave you to guess the indignant agonies of Mademoi- 
selle Brigitte and her maid, more especially as every soul in 
the house evinced unequivocal symptoms of satisfaction. 
Three whole weeks did they pass in tears — three whole 
weeks did Madame Pinson, according to her own account, 
remain utterly sleepless. The two disconsolate women 
were accustomed to sit in the dusk every evening, recount- 
ing to each other’s sympathy the feats and accomplishments 
of their lost favourite, now probably numbered with the 
dead. When, lo ! at the close of the fourth week, Made- 
moiselle Brigitte was startled out of her sleep one Sunday 
morning by an unwonted scratching at her door, and, on un- 
closing it, in bounded a handsome healthy quadruped, faint- 
ly resembling the idol of other times. The w'ell-combed 
coat and shapely form of the new comer bore, however, 
little affinity to the wheezing lump which in latter days had 
answered to the name of Mouton ; and when, at the ejacula- 
tion of that once-loved name, the intruder raised himself on 
his hinder legs, and, advancing towards Ma’araselle Brigitte’s 


62 


A LUCKY DOG. 


head, performed a succession of well-remembered feats of 
agility, the astonished old lady began to fancy that the grave 
had yielded up its dead. ‘ JVIouton !’ cried she again ; and 
laying its now gelid muzzle to her beloved hand, the faith- 
ful beast licked it in a paroxysm of tenderness, ‘ Yes, it 
was her JVIouton ; her own — her only, restored to health, 
beauty, youth, and happiness !’ 

“ But, by what extraordinary interposition was the mira- j 
cle accomplished ? — None could say ! The delighted mis- J 
tress and maid were forced to content themselves with the | 
belief that supernatural aid had been vouchsafed to restore i 
their darling — a new Eurydice — to their affections. 

“It was not till when, on the following winter, I received 
something nearly approaching to a thrashing from Madame 
Goville on the discovery that my warm great coat had dis- 
appeared as unaccountably as poor Mouton, by w r ay of de- 
fence, l ventured to place in her hand the card of the 


‘HOPITAL POUR LES CHINES. 

Chats, Oiseaux, et autres Animaux, tenu par M. le Docteur Mirabeau, 
qui prend aussi des pensionnaries. 


1 Consultation . 2 fr. 1 Coupe d’Oreilles . . 2 fr. 

1 Visite . . . . 3 “ 1 Idem de queue . . 1 lt 

1 Saignee . . . 3 “ ' 1 Autopsie . . 3 “ 

1 Posee de sangsues . 3 “ 

Pour les fractures et autres operations, on traite de convenance, &c. &c. 


having on the reverse a lithographic vignette, representing 
the Dog-Hospital. 

“ ‘ 1 see how it is !’ cried Madame Goville, after casting 
her eyes over an annexed bill, amounting to forty-three 
francs ten sous, for a month’s board of a sick poodle, bran- 
baths, sea-weed poultices, drugs, and other remedies, sup- 
plied for the same. ‘Unprincipled little wretch! You 
actually disposed of your warm paletot in order to insure 
the restoration of that beast of a dog. Just as you please! 
But / will take care that you have never another great 
coat to your back till you have earned one by your own 
exertions.’ 

“ ‘ He has earned' one !’ was Mademeoiselle Brigitte’s 

r> 

exclamation when the secret transpired, and reached her 


A LUCKY DOG. 


63 


ears. ‘ And, so long as Leonard lives, he shall never want 
a warm coat to his back.’ 

“'Such, my dear sir (for here we are within view of my 
gate,) such was the trivial cause which determined the old 
lady to give me the education of a gentleman. Three years 
afterwards, on the opening of her last will and testament, it 
was discovered that Mademoiselle Brigitte had left me her 
universal legatee. The ill-natured world persists in believ- 
ing me to be her son. But it is no such thing. Like other 
great men, I am le fils de mes ceuvres ; and my chef d’ceuvre 
was my preservation of the life of poor Mouton, by kidnap- 
ping him to L’Hopital des Chiens.” 


. 


* ' 

' 






THE FATAL WINDOW. 


BY u THE OLD BACHELOR IN PARIS.” 


We crack-brained saunterers through life, whose brains 
are stuffed to overflowing with odd shreds and patches of 
tradition, are apt to affix a value to circumstances of locality, 
trifles of no account in the eyes of sober minded men, and 
wholly overlooked by the ordinary observer. Till within the 
last few months, there existed in the Place Vendome, mar- 
ring the uniformity of its presentment, a single window, 
whose narrow panes and old-fashioned framing afforded a 
remarkable contrast to the noble plate-glass so much better 
proportioned to the majestic architecture of the place, which 
filled the windows of the neighboring houses. Though the 
chamber to which it admitted light was situated on the first 
floor, or ciage a'honneur, of one of the finest hotels of the 
square, it had evidently remained untouched from the pe- 
riod of its construction ; when even the palaces of the first 
kingdom of Europe betrayed, in the inadequate quality and 
size of their -window-panes, the imperfect progress of one of 
the most ancient and beautiful of the arts of invention. 

Every other drawing-room of the Place Vendome was 
adorned with capacious carreaux , so transparent as to de- 
ceive the eye into doubts of any intervening medium be- 
ween the cozy warmth within and the chilly atmosphere 
vithout. Yet in that one window (the fatal window, as it 
VOL. ii. — 7 . 


66 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


was designated by all the old people of the neighborhood,) 
there remained the small, green, veiny squares, through 
which the financier, Law, used to gaze upon the gathering 
of the multitude below, who first thronged thither to pur- 
chase his worthless paper ; and finally, with the hope of 
tearing to pieces the arch-imposter by whom that scheme of 
financial knavery was devised for the ruin of thousands. 

It was not, however, during John Law’s occupancy of 
the hotel in question that the event took place, which was 
the cause of affixing to the window in question so startling a 
designation. 

The sale of the adventurer’s goods and chattels, conse- 
quent upon the breaking of the bubble, had placed the no- 
ble mansion in the hands of one of the most opulent of that 
unpopular tribe, the Fermiers Generaux of the kingdom, j 
Monsieur de Raynolle (whose financial exertions w'ere, not 
to speak it profanely, strictly within the letter of the law) 
was a man who regarded with horror the dealings of his j 
predecessors as irregularities, innovations, inbreaks into the 
routine of financial credit. He considered the post he had 
purchased as the means of honestly turning his capital to 
account. It had pleased Heaven to make him rich ; it 
pleased himself to make himself richer. Like the greater 
number of his confraternity, he did not slumber upon his 
opulence, but enjoyed an all but regal share of the luxu- 
ries and transports of life ; purchasing at the highest cost, 
not only the chef d'ceuvres of art or science, but the 
society of the most eminent among the wits, poets, 
philosophers, statesmen, and beauties of his time. Forsuch 
things are purchasable ; not, as the bargain-drivers say, from 
hand to band, but by splendid banquets, brilliant entertain- 
ments, and all the garlands and frippery suspended by the 
hand of luxury over the wooden frame-work of life ! 

The Due de Choiseul and the Comte de Lauraguais, the 
profligate Richelieu and the brilliant Soubise, were frequent 
guests of Monsieur Raynolle, both in his Place Vendome 
Hotel, and at his splendid chateau de Draveil. Nay, even 
St. Lambert and Marmontel, the Abbe Voisenon, and Baron 
Grimm, crowded eagerly to his petits soupers. Nothing 
could be more recherche than the fare ; nothing more fash- 
ionable than the society assembled. It was impossible to 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


67 


outrage moral feeling, or laugh at the notion of a Providence, 
with a better grace than did the guests of Monsieur Ray- 
nolle, the Fermier Generali One might have fancied that 
this buyer-up of the good and beautiful things of this world, 
had also contracted with the great Disposer of events for 
impunity from judgment to come ! 

An yet the reckless libertine had a wife, — young, beau- 
tiful, brilliant, shrewd, — in name, if not in nature, an Eng- 
lishwoman. 

In the course of his mercantile dealings, some ten years 
before, Raynolle had become acquainted with a man named 
Darley ; the poor, but honest cashierof a house of business, 
having intimate connections with the English market ; and 
Ra) nolle, on discovering that the daughter (for whom, in 
addition to a couple of grown-up sons, the indigent clerk 
was indebted to his marriage with a portionless Frenchwo- 
man, of indifferent reputation) was young and beautiful be- 
yond even the the renowned beauties whom he was bold 
enough to consider his own, made no doubt of attaching her 
name to the catalogue of his household property. Neither 
Hester Darley nor her mother seemed, indeed, to oppose 
much obstacle to the supposition. His costly gifts were so 
well received, his tedious visits were so obsequiously wel- 
comed during the absence of the poor cashier on his daily 
duties, that Raynolle was almost pardonable in believing 
that the time was not far distant when further visits would 
become superfluous. In this insolent surmise, he was 
strengthened by the discovery that Hester’s elder brother, 
John Darley, had formed a clandestine marriage, almost as 
imprudent as his father’s, and that extreme misery might 
be expected to silence his opposition to the disgrace of his 
sister. 

Of the younger brother, Gerard, the Fermier General 
knew nothing, for he was with the army in Flanders — a sol- 
dier of fortune ; nor was it till the very eve of the day 
which Raynolle had marked for the enlevement of Hester 
Darley, that the sudden arrival of the impetuous young 
man, to whom some considerate neighbor had despatched 
tidings of what was passing in his father’s house, threw the 
projects of the Fermier General into confusion. 

“ I am neither a brawler nor a bully,” said Gerard Dar- 


68 


THE FATAL WINDOW 


ley, on finding Raynolle, as he had been taught to expect, 
established as master of the house during his father s ab- 
sence, “ and the airs of grandeur you would assume with 
me, Monsieur le richard, are wholly thrown away. I fear 
neither the canes of your footmen nor the staves of the hu- 
issiers, with whose aid you are accustomed to make war 
upon your debtors. Only this I tell you, without rancor or 
malice, — that you leave this house as the affianced husband 
of my sister, or you leave it not alive. Hester is your 
equal, sir, — for you possess riches and consideration, she 
youth and beauty ; and, in point of family, both are alike 
sprung from the people. But even did there exist a dis- 
parity of condition, you should have thought of it before 
your visits here brought disgrace on an honest family 1” 

Madame Darley and her daughter listened in consterna- 
tion to this arrogant address, not conceiving that the unsup- 
ported menaces of a youth of Gerard’s age could be pro- 
ductive of any other result than that of incensing against 
them the munificent patron to whom they had so many ob- 
ligations; and Hester grew pale with rage at the idea of 
any interruption to an intimacy which had been the means 
of affording such luxurious indulgences to her vanity, and 
rendering her an object of envy to their less fortunate neigh- 
bors. But her vexation was soon converted into hope of a 
more favorable issue, on discerning the weakness and terror 
of poor Ray nolle, when he found himself yet more vigor- 
ously pressed by the reckless young sergeant of dragoons. 
With features contracted by rage, he finally yielded to the 
imperious demands of Gerard Darley. A notary was sent 
for ; a I egal signature secured ; and when Raynolle, accor- 
ding to his previous intention, bore the beautiful Hester from 
her obscure home, it was as his lawful wife ! Only one 
stipulation did the wily financier make on the occasion, — 
that not a syllable should be suffered to transpire of the 
mode in which the marriage had been achieved ; while his 
sole act of vengeance upon those of whom he conceived 
himself the dupe, consisted in a decree that not one of the 
Darley family should ever set foot within his gates. 

Meanwhile, the admiration excited in society by the 
charms of the new beauty (as Madame Raynolle was uni- 
versally denominated by the gallants of the court), almost 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


69 


reconciled her vain-glorious husband to a connection into 
which he had been forced at the point of the sword. Of 
her origin nothing was known ; and the financier having 
been artful enough to make a hurried journey to London 
previous to placing his beautiful bride at the head of his es- 
tablishment, Madame Raynolle passed among her husband’s 
friends as a belle milady , whom he had brought back with 
him from the chartered fatherland of fine horses and fine 
women. 

Who now so worshipped as the charming wife of the 
millionary Fermier General i — Her portrait was on the easel 
of every artist; her name imparted distinction to every 
fashionable invention. To the indignation of Madame de 
Pompadour, ribbons were tied up in bows a la Raynolle ; 
chickens stewed a la Raynolle ; pralines crisped a la Ray- 
nolle ; carriages painted in garlands a la Raynolle ; every 
thing worn, tasted, or displayed at that moment in Paris, 
was named in honor of the divinity in whose hair flashed a 
coronet of diamonds surpassing even that of the Queen ; 
and towards whose box at the opera, the eyes and acclama- 
tions of the whole assembly were directed. Voltaire ad- 
dressed to her, under the name ofNeaera,one of his choicest 
odes ; and the prettiest of Marmontel’s tales was dedicated 
to the presiding angel of the Place Vendome. 

The Fermier General was satisfied. Eclat was all he 
coveted in the world ; and his handsome young wife excited 
as much applause as his statues of Daphne and Chloe, by 
Couston, or the frescos of his dining-room by Boucher. He 
saw himself an object of envy, and was content. Already, 
too, he recognised a kindred spirit in the lovely Hester. 
Vain and ostentatious, her nature was cold and artificial as 
his own ; and he was indebted to his wife for a thousand 
cogent suggestions for the advancement of their position in 
society. The purchase of a princely estate in Languedoc, 
endowed with privileges of ennoblement, converted them 
into the Marquis and Marquise de Montmery ; the purchase 
of an office in the royal household entitled them to an en- 
I tree at court. In consideration of the fair aspirant after 
the honors of Versailles, Louis XV made no opposition ; 
and though certain of the more stiff-necked of the Queen’s 
ladies were indignant at seeing a mere bourgeoise raised to 
VOL. II. 7 * 


70 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


their level, they dared not venture upon any open demon- 
strations of displeasure. In the grand monde of Pans, as 
in the laws of England, “ le Roi le veut ” rendered the rule 
absolute. 

On the nights when the fetes of the new Marquise de 
Montmery set the windows of her hotel into a blaze, as vast 
a crowd was collected in the Place Vendome as in the tu- 
multuous days of John Law. Many among them had wit- 
nessed the triumphs of that unprincipled adventurer. 

“At that verv window he used to stand, and with fien- 
dish glee survey the poor dupes below, the last livre of 
whose earnings he was filching !” they would exclaim, 
pointing to a window of the first floor, from which now issued 
a dazzling gleam of light, emitted by the brilliant boudoir of 
the lovely Marquise. Others, turning from the spot, were 
heard to whisper, “ The place is doomed ! A curse ought 
to be upon the window from whence John Law numbered 
his victims !” 

Instead of a curse, however, a blessing seemed to be on 
all belonging to the Marquis and Marquise de Montmery. 
As their prodigality increased, their means became doubled. 
His speculations were uniformly triumphant, till “ lucky as 
Montmei'y” became a proverb in the money-market of more 
than one European city. Fifteen years after the marriage 
(on the origin of which he no longer suffered a reflection to 
disturb the harmony of his thoughts) the Fermier General 
was as fast united to his fair Hester by similarity of tastes 
and pursuits, as he had formerly been by the brilliancy of a 
complexion, which, sooth to say, was now, like most daz- 
zlingly fair complexions, somewhat on the wane. 

The time was now come, indeed, for the Marchioness to 
experience a similar change in the colour of her fortunes. 
One evening about ten years after her marriage, during the 
absence of her husband who was inspecting the erect'on of 
a splendid conservatory at Draveil, a strange cavalier insisted 
on forcing his way into her presence with a vehemence not 
to be withstood by a whole regiment of lacqueys. 

“ Yes, it is I !” cried Gerard Darley, flinging down his 
hat on a table of malachite and gold, on finding himself face 
to face with his proud sister in her luxurious boudoir. “ You 
are surprised to see me here. You had hoped never to see 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


71 


me again. Ungrateful for the energy o! soul and arm which 
served to place you in the position you now occupy, you 
despise your obscure brother, who, trust me, Madam, ren- 
ders back with interest the contempt of the Marquise de 
Montmery !” 

“ You must be aware that the prohibitions of my hus- 
band ” Madame de Montmery was beginning. 

u 1 have sedulously respected them,” replied Gerard, 
with a bitter sneer. “ 1 did not appeal to your opulence 
when your parents lay dying in misery and neglect. 1 did 
not appeal to your affection when your wretched brother, 
distracted by the loss of his young wife, fell by his own 
hand, leaving two helpless orphans to my protection. I did 
not appeal to your pity when one of these poor babes, re- 
quiring tenderer aid than could be afforded by its soldier 
uncle, pined away till it rejoined its parents in the grave. I 
appeal not to it even now, Madam, though one of the only 
two on earth in whose veins blood kindred with your own is 
flowing, stands in urgent need of your protection. But I 
command it, Hester ! 1 command it in the name of those 
who gave you life ; — I command it in the name of that 
most high God who hath called them to himself. I com- 
mand it in the name of the world’s opinion, more influential 
over your mind than either 1” 

“ What is it you require of me?” faltered the Marchion- 
ess, overawed by the resolute sternness of her brother. 

That during my absence in the opening campaign you 
accord your protection to the orphan daughter of John Dar- 
ley,” replied Gerard. “ The camp is not a fit home for a 
girl of her years and beauty ; and where am l to place her, 
unless where she has a right to be, in the household of her 
nearest female relative ?’’ 

“ h is well,” replied Madame de Montmery, coldly. 
“ During your absence my niece shall be duly cared for.” 

“ 1 had rather the words were uttered in a more womanly 


tone,’’ remonstrated Gerard; “ nevertheless, l accept the 
pledge. Hester Darley is now fifteen — fair and innocent, as 
was a former Hester Darley at those tender years. Her 
birth and breeding, though humble, are equal to those of the 
Marquise de Montmery. She must not be treated as a slave, 
she must not be treated as a menial.” 


72 


THE FATAL WINDOW, 


11 She shall be treated as my brother’s child,” interrupted 
Hester, eager to bring the interview to a close. 

“Nay, more. Unendowed with the means of forming a 
noble alliance, I will not have her thrust into the dissolute 
circles that frequent this house. Let her dwell in seclusion 
till my return, when I shall require at your hands an account 
of her welfare. You know me — you are aware that Gerard 
Darley is not to be trifled with. Let the prosperity of my 
poor charge allow me nothing to complain of.” 

However irritated by the arrogance of the trooper’s tone, 
Madame de Montmery felt that the best method to keep 
peace with him was to subscribe to his conditions ; and 
within an hour, the young girl, as yet a stranger to her, was 
deposited under her care. That night young Hester Darley 
slept under the roof of the Marchioness. 

The only comfort to the aunt, on beholding the extraor- 
dinary beauty of the girl thus peremptorily committed to her 
charge, was the injunction of Gerard that she should not . 
figure in the gay society of the Hotel Montmery. Hester 
Darley, though presenting an extraordinary resemblance to 
her aunt and namesake, was a thousand times lovelier than 
the Marchioness, even in her prime. She possessed that 
transparent fairness rarely seen unless in persons of English 
descent, enhanced by a glossy elasticity, which sadly put to 
shame the faded cheeks of her kinswoman, withered by vigils 1 
and dissipation. 

“This would never do !” murmured Madame de Mont- 
mery, as she noted the resplendent beauty of the timid 
young girl. “ I would not that even the Marquis should 
see me thrown into the shade by this minion. This very 
day 1 shall despatch her, under the care of my woman, to 
the Superior at Moret, where, till Gerard’s return, she may 
abide for the completion of her education ; and should he 
fall in the wars, as his headlong rashness renders probable, 
she may become a permanent inmate of the convent. The 
good abbess has too many obligations to us not to accept a 
moderate dowry with a kinswoman of the Marchioness de 
Montmery.” 

On the return of the Marquis from Draveil, the affair was 
briefly explained to him ; when, as usual, he approved of 
the arrangements of his wife. But he testified little interest 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


73 


in the affair. His faculties were already impaired bv the 
influence of a malady, which, in a few weeks time, carried 
him to the grave, leaving Madame la Marquise sole comp- 
troller of his princely inheritance. 

Engrossed by the cares and irritations inseparable from 
such a charge, Madame de Montmery had scarcely enough 
leisure to discover the tedionsness of a year of widowhood. 
Though resolved to reappear in the world at its expiration 
more brilliant than ever, to imbibe anew the incense of poets 
and flatterers of the Court, and, if possible, unite herself in 
second marriage with a man of untarnished blazon and illus- 
trious lineage, she was too much occupied with processes of 
law, and the comptes rendus of her various intendants, to do 
more than direct the preparation of an infinity of rich attires, 
and costly suits of jewels, in which she intended to blaze 
forth on her re-appearance at Versailles. Madame de Pompa- 
dour’s death (which occurred eight months after that of the 
Marquis) had cleared the way for a thousand ambitious 
projects on the part of the unprincipled beauties of the 
Court of Louis XV. 

Of i( cette jeune Esther” meanwhile, the ostentatious 
widow knew no more than was communicated once a quarter 
by her friend the abbess, namely, that she edified the whole 
donvent by her piety, gentleness, and grace, to say nothing 
of the divine beauty which one day or other, would cause 
strange emotions among the profane; laudations, accompan- 
ied, of course, with the usual claims for the cost of the 
young lady’s maintenance and education. These missives 
were carefully laid aside by Madame de Montmery, to be 
exhibited to her severe brother on his return from the army, 
in evidence of the noble manner in which she had performed 
her duty to his protegee. 

From time to time there arrived a harsh letter from Dar- 
ley, demanding tidings of his beloved Hester, his nursling, 
his darling, to which the Marchioness returned a dry and 
succinct reply. But she saw that there must be no trifling 
with this stern guardian, that she was deeply accountable to 
him for the welfare of the girl, and that he was capable of 
proceeding to the worst extremities to avenge any evil that 
might befal his favourite niece. 

What, therefore, was the consternation of Madame de 


74 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


Montmery when, at the expiration of the fifth quarter of 
Hester’s residence at Moret, and of her own widowhood, — 
just as she was beginning to enjoy, with almost more than 
her former animation, the gorgeous festivals of Versailles, 
and the addresses of a hundred noble adorers, she was ap- 
prised by the superior of Moret that Mademoiselle Darley 
(no longer cette belle Esther 7) must be instantly removed 
from the establishment. In the hope of softening by a gra- 
tuity the determination of the abbess, Madame de Mont- 
rnery hastened with all speed to Moret ; but alas ! only to 
find her perplexities converted into utter consternation. The 
gentle, timid Hester, the model of pensionnaires , had dis- i 
graced the convent — her family — herself! Permitted, by 
the indulgence of the partial abbess, to accompany the 
noble family of one of her companions to a royal rendezvous 
de chasse, held within half a league of Moret, during the so- 
journ of the court at Fontainebleau, Hester, on the second 
day of the fete, had disappeared from her friends, — had 
been forty-eight hours absent, — and, at length, made her 
way on foot to the gates of the convent in such a plight as 
to render her reception a matter of grace on the part of the 
abbess. To these humiliating statements, and the bursts of 
fury from the Marchioness which succeeded, poor Hester, 
pale and motionless as a statue, replied only by an almost 
unconscious assertion that she was married, — that time 
would bring her innocence to light, — in confirmation of 
which she showed on her finger a diamond ring of con- 
siderable value. Her two judges were startled. They saw 
at once that she had fallen a victim to some bold and prac- 
tised seducer of the Court. But neither persuasions nor 
menaces could extract from the lips of the young girl further 
avowals, further explanation. So public, meanwhile, had 
been the scandal, that the abbess persisted in her refusal to 
retain her pensionnaire ; and, sorely against her will, the 
Marchioness was forced to convey back the humbled delin- 
quent to the Hotel de Montmery. 

A secluded chamber was now assigned to Hester. The 
Marcbionness decided that the disgrace of the recent event 
could only be obliterated by an immediate marriage ; and 
nothing was easier than for the rich wddow to secure, by a 
sufficient dowry, an alliance suitable to the modest preten- 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


75 


sionsofher neice. She even commenced negotiations with 
the intendant of her Languedoc estates for the hand of his 
son ; and finally signified to Hester, that unless the unknown 
seducer, whose name she refused to disclose, presented him- 
self within two months to claim her as his wife, she must give 
her hand to Alexis Duval. Madame de Montmery trembled 
at the mere apprehension of Gerald’s return, till the clearing 
up of a mystery so dishonorable to his beloved niece. 

Meanwhile, nothing could exceed the wretchedness of the 
unhappy Hester. Her obstinacy in refusing to disclose the 
name of him whom she regarded as her plighted husband, 
'arose, in truth, from ignorance of his title. Jn offering him- 
self as her protector when separated from her party by the 
crowd assembled in the gardens of the palace of Fontain- 
bleau to witness a feu cT artifice in honor of the King’s arri- 
| val, he had described himself as one of the royal household ; 
and, on her ingenuous avowal of her own name and situation 
had declared himself to be an intimate acquaintance of the 
, Marquise de Montmery. Confiding in this assurance, the 
poor girl, in the course of the scandalous deceptions prac- 
tised upon her, after being persuaded to accept a refuge in 
r| the palace, gave full credit to his assertions that his rank and 
fortune were such as to preclude all possibility of refusal on 
the part of her relations, when he should present himself to 
' claim the hand of his affianced wife. How could she dis- 
- believe him ? His deportment was so noble, — his eloquence 
so convincing, — his manner so graceful 1 He was the only 
man from whose lips she had heard avowals of admiration, 
professions of love ; and even now, amid all her humiliations 
(and the discredit thrown upon her assertions, of having es- 
caped from the palace, on discovering that attempts were 
made to detain her a prisoner,) those professions and those 
graceful gestures dwelt upon her memory as endowed with 
only too dangerous a charm. She felt that she could love 
only that audacious stranger. Morning, noon, and night 
she prayed upon her bended knees that he might fulfil his 
pledge, and appear to claim her as his own, so as to prevent 
her being forced into a hateful marriage, to the injury of an 
honorable man. 

Certain, from their former conversation, that he for whose 
crime she was making atonement, was well acquainted with 


76 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


her abode, and might have learned at Moret her removal 
from the convent, she persuaded herselt day after day that 
her penance was about to end, — that he would come, — that 
the preparations for her marriage with Alexis Duval would 
be discontinued, — that happiness was still in store for her. 
But every night she laid down her aching head upon a 
sleepless pillow 1 — No token of his arrival, — no change in 
her destinies ! 

Madame de Montmery had nothing further to apprehend 
from the introduction of the poor girl into her coterie . 
“ Cette belle Esther ” was wasting to a shaddow. Not a 
tinge of color on her cheeks, — not a spark of animation in 
her downcast eyes. To crown all, the preliminaries of 
peace were signed, and it was expected that a few weeks’ 
time would bring back the French armies from Germany ! 
The Marchioness actually shuddered as she anticipated the 
arrival of her brother. 

“ Expect not a day’s delay after the appointed period,” 
said she to her suffering niece. “ Alexis Duval is already 
arrived in Paris. The writings are preparing. You will 
find that 1 have supplied a handsome dowry and noble 
trousseau. I have neglected nothing to secure the happiness 
of her who has so ill repaid my former bounties.” 

Sometimes poor Hester persuaded herself that her un- 
known lover, not daring to present himself to Madame de 
Montmery, might be w andering in the vicinity of the Hotel, 
in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the object of his at- 
tachment. Her allotted chamber overlooked the court-yard; 
she had no means of obtaining a view' of the place. Aware, 
however, that every day at a certain hour Madame de 
Montmery quitted the Hotel to exhibit herself and her sump- 
tuous equipage on the Cours la Reine, she w'atched one 
morning till the coach and six rolled out of xhe porte co - 
chere, and the household servants retreated to the offices ; 
then, stealing from her retreat, made her w'ay to those gor- 
geous saloons which she never considered without awe, as 
the habitation of her heartless kinswoman. With a stealthy 
step she traversed the gaudy chambers, across whose win- 
dows were drawn heavy draperies of crimson brocade, em- 
belished with fringes of golden bullion. But the fresh air 
from without, reached her as she approached the boudoir 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


77 


terminating the suite. That window at least must be open. 
The termination of all her sorrows was perhaps at hand ! — 
arid , with the sanguine impetuosity of youth, the heart of 
the poor invalid beat almost to bursting, when she reflected 
that she might be on the eve of beholding him whose features 
were indelibly impressed upon her memory, — upon her af- 
fections. He, at least, would not despise her — he, at least, 
must still treat her with gentleness and respect. 

At that moment a strain of music reached her from with- 
out. A military band was striking up in the Place, as if to 
honor the arrival of some royal personage. With a panting 
bosom, regardless of the strange figure she must present with 
her dishevelled hair and long white wrapper, Hester ap- 
proached the open window. A brilliant procession was in- 
deed passing ; the King in person, followed by his whole 
etat major , proceeding to pass in review his royal guard 
upon the esplanade of the Hotel des Invalides. 

Amid the tumultuous clash of cymbals and braying of trump- 
ets that celebrated the royal progress, the crowd assembled 
in the Place fancied they heard a piercing shriek. And it 
might be so ; for the royal personage, whose uncovered 
head was so affably declined to the salutations of the multi- 
tude, was no other than the lawless libertine of Fontaine- 
bleau ; and the fair and wasted corpse which, on the return 
of Madame de Montmery from her drive, was found ex- 
tended across the still of the fatal window, was that of the 
j predestined niece of Gerard Darley ! 

Fortunately for the Marchioness, her brother was not fated 
to return alive to France to work out his threat of retribu- 
tion. It was considered a singular circumstance, however, 
that from the period in question to the day of her death, 

| she never again set foot in her Hotel in the Place Vendome. 
j Many people conceived that her precipitate retreat to her 
estates in Languedoc was produced by the refusal of the 
King to sign her contract of ^marriage with the Comte de 
1 Blainvilier,° a member of the royal household. But the 
publication of the archives of police at the Revolution, 

, proved that Madame de Montmery had been escorted thither 
: under surveillance, by virtue of a lettre de cachet. She was 
never suffered to re-appear at court, — Louis XV being 
desirous to usurp to himself the monopoly of heartlessness 
VOL. ii — 8 


78 


THE FATAL WINDOW. 


and crime, as well as to secure the secret of his disgraceful 
excesses. 

Such was the history of the Fatal Window, to which a 
superstitious charm was long attached by the after posses- 
sors of the Hotel de Montmery. The demolition of this 
strange memento of the vices of the olden time occurred 
within the last few months, in the course of the improve- 
ments achieved in the house by its new proprietress, — the 
Baroness de Feucheres ! 


THE RAILROAD. 


Sterne’s declaration of war against the man who could 
travel from Dan to Beersheba and “ find all barren,” is often 
quoted in a positive and physical sense, by persons who do 
not seem aware that the denunciation of the sensitive Yorick 
referred to the exercise of 


That inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

that his diatribe is directed against the stockfish who surveys 
mankind from China to Peru without finding a kindred sym- 
pathy excited ; not against such travellers as, condemned 
to traverse the surface of the world, whether in a ‘ deso- 
bligeante ’’ or a chaise and four, behold only flatness in the 
fields and sterility in the mountains. Yorick himself, for 
instance, must have admitted the unloveliness of those mo- 
notonous plains of cornfield and vineyard which clothe 
the greater portion of the kingdom of France; dotted 
With staring unsheltered villages, traversed by straight and 
hedgeless roads, unenriched by the ornate abodes of the 
great and wealthy, unendeared by the snug homesteads, the 
nooky farms, and all the love-stirring domesticity of the ru- 
ral population of shrubby England ! 

It is, however, the very absence of circumstantial beauty, 
constituting the true picturesque of rustic landscape, that 
imparts a double charm to the occasional snatches of wood- 
land seclusion we stumble upon in the by-ways of the 


80 


THE RAILROAD. 


“ plaisant pays de France such as lodges fast by the side 
of some ancient forest ; farm-houses modernized within the 
ruins of a dilapidated convent ; stream-encircled peninsulas 
embedding a village of almost amphibious growth, with long 
loose willow-bows streaming above, and a phalanx of sedges 
and bulrushes rising around, like a magic fortification ; or, 
better still, some long-winding, sequestered valley, with a 
bubbling stream keeping alive its verdure, the green moss 
of the rising bank on one side shining brightly between the 
white stems of the abele trees, which, on the other, rustle 
between the river and the road. 

Such was the peculiar attraction of the scattered hamlet 
of Pierrevau, dotted along a verdant dingle in one of the 
loneliest cantons of the province of Burgundy ; rarely visit- 
ed, never molested ; slumbering, from year to year, in the 
midst of widely-spreading woodlands ; and remote, by two 
leagues, from the by-road communicating again, at three 
ieagues distance, with the high-road leading from Dijon to 
Lyons. Nothing could be more finely primitive than the 
village and its little community. The adjacent forest-lands 
being an appanage of the crown, the green basin included 
within their protecting skirts was divided into some half 
dozen insignificant farms, cultivated by proprietors united 
among themselves by intermarriages ; undisturbed by ambi- 
tion or speculative projects ; indifferent to the faint rumors 
of the far-off world — to the progress of human knowledge 
— to the growth of civilized institutions; familiar only with 
the earth under their feet and the sky above then heads ; 
nav, far more familiarized with the idea of the omnipotent 
King of Kings weekly propounded to their love and rever- 
ence, than with that of the merely temporal sovereign whose 
name became paramount in the valley only four times a- 
year, on occasions of tax-gathering, or other direct or indi- 
rect contributions towards the maintenance of the state. 

Even the periodical intercourse kept up in the way of 

trade with M -, the nearest market tow n (at the distance 

of about thirteen English miles from Pierrevau), tended little 
towards either the enlightenment or demoralization of the 
place. Besnard the miller, the only scholar of the district, 
found himself too heavily charged with neighborly commis- 
sions on such occasions, to haye leisure for bringing back 


THE RAILROAD. 


81 


political or other news among the items of his homeward- 
bound cargo ; and of the farmers forming the complement 
of village notabilites, only one was sufficiently addicted to 
letters to have been capable of spelling out a newspaper, 
had any such bulletin of the sayings and doings of man- 
kind found its way into the valley. 

Nor was the tax of postage often levied on their modest 
treasuries. Such Pierrevalites as, few and far between, be- 
came smitteii with a taste for roaming, were heard of at 
home no more till they arrived in person to relate their ad- 
ventures or misadventures in the wider world ; and those 
who appeared not again, whether carried off by the con- 
scription or a truant disposition, came to be accounted dead 
and buried, though neither letter nor sepulchral stone might 
be deputed to “tell where they lay. It may easily be con- 
jectured, therefore, that such wanderers as did return, came 
fraught with monstrous tales and inventions of the marvels 
of distant countries and Indian oceans; — that the travels of 
Sinbad and Gulliver were emulated in their reminiscences ; 
and that the common world became a world of wonders to 
the guileless inhabitants of the valley. 

The cure, a grey-headed man, sometimes ventured to 
point out inconsistencies in the tales thus rendered legenda- 
ry among his credulous parishioners. But the good man, 
whose lore little exceeded that of his neighbors, was readi- 
ly rebuked by the citation of Scriptural precedents ; and 
compelled to avow, in apology, that the age of miracles 
might not be altogether past. For, though the course of 
nature was so smooth at Pierrevau, — though year after year 
the roses blew to a day, cultivated in his little garden to 
decorate his church for its patronal feast of St. John, — 
though the hazels ripened in due season in the thickets, and 
the tender sallows put forth their yellow catkins, — though 
the swallow and the woodcock had their appointed lime, 
and the yellow grain or purple clover its stated harvests, — 
what right had he or his flock to deny t lie existence of coun- 
tries whose pebbles were of jaspar, whose rocks of sardine 
stone, — whose bowels gave forth flames as from the depths 
of Tophet, — whose bosom quaked and trembled, as with 
d a convulsion of human passion, — whose swallows were 

VOL. II. S* 


82 


THE RAILROAD. 


ever on the wing, — whose cornfields of fouifold pro- 
duce ? — 

Among the most passive of the modifications of human- 
nature inhabiting Pierrevau, was a widower of the name of 
Lambert ; an aged man, whose cottage, garden, and an ad- 
joining paddock, having descended to him in a direct line for 
four generations, qualified him to rank as an equal among 
neighboring farmers of thrice his number of acres. His 
outlay was small, his gains uniform ; he had never been re- 
quired to strain a nerve or a muscle to cope with extraordi- 
nary expenditure, sickness, or disaster ; his days and nights 
had passed in easy contentment and cheerful labor ; he 
took pleasure in the earth and its gladsome sounds and 
sights; rejoiced in the good will of his neighbors; and 
seemed to know no deeper cares than those arising from 
their incidental troubles. 

The wife he had espoused from the prudential motives 
which originate the alliances of his countrymen of all de- 
grees, had died too soon after his marriage to leave a pain- 
ful or lasting impression on his rnind. His son, Felix, had 
been an obedient, early working boy, and was now a warm- 
hearted, hard-working man ; and, as to his orphan neice, 
Aimee, she was so gentle, so pious, so submissive, and with- 
al so passing pretty, that, in any other atmosphere than that 
of uneventful and undemonstrative Pierrevau, it might have 
been accounted wonderful that her uncle seemed to reckon 
her only as part and parcel of his domestic chattels, — about 
as necessary to his comfort as his great cherry-w-ood chair, 
about as valuable to his sight as the antique Delft porringer 
gracing his family buffet. But Amiee was scarcely seven- 
teen ; and it was not for a year to come that she was to ac- 
quire her full importance in his eyes, by becoming the wife 
of her cousin, Felix ; part-proprietress of the cow it was 
already her duty to milk, — of the six silver spoons and 
forks bearing the family initials, — of the Delft porringer, 
cherry-wood chair, and, above all, of a renowned Chaumon- 
tel pear-tree, gracing the corner of the cottage garden, and 
currently w'hispered in the village to add little less than two 
hundred francs a-year to Lambert’s income. Never, in fact, 
were seen such ppars, so jucy, so shapely, so smooth-skinned, 
as those of Lambert’s tree ; and they were accordingly be- 


THE RAILROAD. 


83 


spoken from year to year, by a patissier of M— — , engaged 
in commercial dealings with a celebrated marchand de 
comestibles of the Palais Royal. 

By some strange perversity, however, it ha opened that 
the sp irit of restlessness engendered about a score of times in 
the course of a century in the breast of some less worthy 
Pierrevalite, became demonstrated, in the present genera- 
tion, in that of Lambert’s pretty niece ! It was not that 
Aimee was dissatisfied with her lot. She had been brought 
too young to Lambert’s cottage to entertain recollections of 
an earlier stage of existence ; and, though the cure had 
taught her to read, her acquirements were exercised so spa- 
ringly, and on such chosen books of devotion, that her little 
learning had not proved a dangerous thing. She knew little 
more of the world and its ways than could be gathered from 
the legends of the elders of the valley, or the disclosures of 
Besnard the miller, when his lips were opened by the ex- 
citement of market-day. 

It must have been instinct, therefore, which, stirring the 
pure current of Aimee’s blood, suggested to her that, grace- 
ful as was the face of nature on which she was habituated 
to gaze, art had also amassed an exquisite confusion of 
I graces in a peculiar world of its own ; and that, kind and 
good as was her cousin Felix, a less tuneless voice than his 
might be moved to whisper words of tenderness in her ear. 
She saw in the groves and fields things that had no exist- 
ence for the eye of Felix ; she experienced in the brilliancy 
of the summer sky a sense of exaltation which he knew not 
of; and, while he called upon her to rejoice in the growth 
of the beans that were to fatten his hogs, or the excellence 
of the manure with which he was bedaubing the paddock, 
Aimee was longing for her labours of the day to end, that 
she might wander forth to enjoy 

The silence that is in the stary sky — 

The sleep that is between the lonely hills. 

Wilder wanderings, happily, she dreamed not of. She 
knew that her days must begin and end at Pierrevau ; and 
old Lambert was spared the perplexity of listening to as- 
pirations he was so little gifted to comprehend. 


84 


THE RAILROAD. 


Strange rumours were, at length, destined to break in 
upon this primeval stage of Pierrevallite torpor. Besnard 
the miller, on returning one evening from market, gave forth 
an oracular intimation, that a chernin de fer, long projected 
by government, was actually about to be carried through the 
valley ! — 

“ Bah !” cried Felix; “ an iron road, indeed 1 What are 
they dreaming of? There is neither iron nor copper in this 
part of the country.” 

“ It must be some mistake,” resumed his father ; “ Bes- 
nard has washed down his bouilli with a glass of Macon too 
much ; or ’tis to some other Pierrevau, situated in the 
mining districts, that his story bears reference.” 

No ! Besnard was positive ; and, on the morrow morning, 
standing beside his mill-dam, and having tasted nothing 
more heady for breakfast than a mug of small Burgundy, 
persisted in the accuracy of his narrative. He even conde- 
scended to expound to his wondering auditors, that, accord- 
ing to the explanations vouchsafed him the preceding day, 
a chemin de fer meant neither a road bottomed with iron ore, 
nor even destined for the exclusive conveyance of that 
valuable mineral ; but a railroad calculated for the accele- 
ration of general transport, and the advantage of commercial 
dispatch. The Pierrevalites scratched their heads, and tried 
to understand ; when, lo ! in the course of a few days, there 
arrived at one of the forest-lodges a detachment of govern- 
ment surveyors, engineers, and commissioners ; and, from 
that moment, all was ter-ror and confusion in the district. 

Rumour, although, instead of her thousand tongues, she 
could only put in motion the four hundred indigenous to the 
place, was not inactive ; and it was soon known that hills 
and houses were to be levelled — dells and gardens filled up- 
fiejds and plantations devasted — a bridge thrown over the 
stream — a road thrown over the bridge; — confusion worse 
confounded was about to annihilate the valley ! — 

Some trembled and despaired ; some prophesied that 
changes so preposterous could never be brought to bear 
during their generation ; but a twelvemonth and a day had 
not ensued from Besnard’s first astounding announcement, 
when they had not only resigned themselves to the impend- 
ing evil, but to the spectacle of the huge embankment of 


THE RAILROAD. 


85 


earth and mortar, the vast cairns of bricks and stone — nay, 
even to the tumult occasioned by the cantonment of nearly 
two thousand workmen in the district. The tranquillity of 
Pierrevau seemed gone forever ! The otter and the plover 
fled from their tranquil haunts beside the stream ; the thrush 
was heard no longer in the thickets at eventide; the lark 
forsook the defiled and trampled turf ; and, instead of these, 
there were the curses of angry voices in the air, the threat 
of authority, the rebuke of the master, the discontent of the 
labourer, the rattle of carts, the rumble of barrows, the click 
of trowels, the chipping of brick and stone! — 

Even the social order of the place seemed totally reversed. 
Some of the poorest had been suddenly made rich by the 
mere accident of the line of road being designated to over- 
throw their miserable cottages, and occupy their modicum of 
land ; some of the richest, fancied themselves ill-used in the 
estimate of compensation conceded to them by government, 
or even by preferences supposed to be evinced in the line 
selected ; and though, in every instance, the value of their 
property was doubled, ail were discontented. Their great- 
ness had been thrust upon them. They fancied, or declar- 
ed, that they would rather have chosen to retain their pris- 
tine and penurious obscurity. 

But there was one among the throng of grumblers who, 
till now so friendly and familiar among his neighbours, main- 
tained on the present occasion a rigid silence; and the 
world (for Pierrevau had already become a portion of the 
world), ever ready to judge of human actions in the least 
favourable point of view, soon settled that Lambert, now 
the richest of the community, had grown proud as well as 
wealthy; that, favoured by the partiality of the commission- 
ers, he was ready to side with them against his former as- 
sociates. For it happened that his whole narrow slip of 
| territory had been comprehended in the railroad ; that his 
house, garden, and paddock, existed no longer; and that the 
submission or supineness with which he left the measure of 
his compensation to the sense of justice of the engineers and 
commissioners, had been instrumental in raising it somewdiat 
above the ordinary level. None perceived that this very 
supineness proceeded from the extremity of desperate dis- 
content. Lambert possessed enough inborn, untaught phi- 


86 


THE RAILROAD. 


losophy, to know that to wrestle with that mysterious agency 
called authority, is a fruitless struggle. But so hateful in 
his eyes was the interpolation of the railroad into his native 
valley, that he fancied it a matter of indifference to him 
whether it brought pecuniary gain or loss. One of the 
station-houses belonging to the road had been appointed, 
unsolicited, to his use, — a comfortable, well-distributed, 
stone dwelling-house, with a small adjoining garden ; while 
Felix, his son, had profitably exchanged the condition of 
husbandman for that of fuel-meter and train-loader. Plenty 
smiled at their board, and Lambert might have droned away 
the remainder of his days in idleness, or training Spanish 
beans over the latticed porch of his new dwelling, without 
fear of future necessity. 

But the old man was too heavy at heart to enjoy even 
the do-nothingness of competence. The harmony of his 1 
days was jarred forever! The thatch under which he was 
born was trampled under foot ; the walls, every crack of 
which was familiar to his eyes, had no longer an existence ; 
the old oven whose weekly heating had formed an incident 
in his life, was demolished ; the latch he had lifted to enter 
into his bridal chamber, — to stand beside the cradle of his 
first-born, — the death-bed of his wife,-— was wrenched off 
and thrown into the rubbish-pit, as an outworn and valueless 
thing. The very spot upon the brick-floor, whereon for 
threescore years he had nightly knelt down to worship God, 
where he had seen his father and his grey-headed grandsire 
kneel and pray before him, was gone — vanished — forgotten ! 

A portion of his very existence seemed taken from him. 
These things were the life of his uneventful life, the poetry 
of his loreless soul, the mementos of youth, which more en- 
lightened men attach to higher objects or public events. It 
is true, his household goods were now removed to more aus- 
picious shelter. The cherry-tree chair stood beside a chim- 
ney with a marble ledge; the enameled Delft porringer was 
ensconced in a glazed corner-cupboard of ample dimensions ; 
the silver spoons and forks were laid shiningly side by side 
in a varnished press ; the old walnut-wood bed was stationed 
in a light and airy chamber. But they did not harmonize 
with their new abode. There was a discrepancy, as between 
the Grecian peristyle of Greenwich Hospital, or the gilt 


THE RAILROAD. 


87 


dome of the Invalides, and the cells of the wooden-legged 
veterans crowded beneath. The fitness of things was want- 
ing, even to an indifferent eye. But to the eye of Lam- 
bert, how infinitely more ! The sense of home, the associa- 
tions of early years, were there no longer ! 

It was probably t his craving after lost pleasures and habits 
broken assunder, that drove him forth constantly from his 
new dwelling, to wander about the neighborhood ; selfishly 
triumphing, as the Pierrevallites imagined, in the spectacle 
of its busy enlivenment, — of the new buildings arising, — the 
new speculations springing up, — the new population in- 
truded into its limits. But it was assuredly the coldness of 
bis former associates that soon drove the old man back ao;ain 
to his cheerless home. For Lambert disdained to explain 
what was really passing in his mind. He saw himself mis- 
judged by those of whose favorable interpretation he had 
thought himself secure ; and scorned to avow that a deeper 
sentiment than even his home-partiality, had been crushed by 
the great event. For, within a few months after the com- 
mencement of the railroad, Aimee had taken him aside, and 
declared her fixed determination against becoming the wife 
of her cousin. 

She h id given indeed, no explanation of her change of 
I inclinations ; yet Lambert could not help connecting it, by 
some invisible concatenation, with the grand revolution of 
affairs in the Happy Valley, Though Felix was now four- 
fold richer than before, the old man felt his own prejudices 
and partialities so rudely intrenched upon, that he could well 
believe his pretty niece might have learned to abhor a spot 
whence rural repose was banished ; where she had no cow 
to tend, or garden flowers and fruit to gather; where she 
could no longer range in peace among thickets of dogrose 
and honev suckle, peeping into the linnet’s nest or searching 
the hollow sycamore trees for the comb of the wild bee. 
She had pledged herself indeed to her uncle, in declining to 
become his daughter-in-law. to remain single for his sake ; to 
abide with him and tend him in his old age ; a promise in- 
consistent with any sudden aversion to his place of abode. 
But that she could have conceived a dislike towards his 
frank and jovial son, appeared far more inconceivable than a 
sudden accession of feminine inconsistency. 


88 


THE RAILROAD. 


“ Yet, if she knew all,” argued Lambert within himself, 
as he stood watching the distant disappearance of a train 
along the now active railroad — “ if she knew herself to be 
the child of misery, — the child of shame, — harboured for 
brotherly-mercy’s sake beneath my roof; it she knew that 
the hovel whose destruction grieves me, had sheltered her 
mother’s tears, and screened her bitter deathbed ; — if she 
knew — if site knew ” 

And the old man would clasp his hands over his furrowed 
forehead, and strive to hide the big rolling tears which 
Aimee’s apostasy had wrung out of his heart! For, neither 
to neighbor, friend, nor son, had he ever allowed himself to 
hint the secret of his family dishonor. The effort of his 
blameless life, — the one great labor, — had been to overcome 
the pangs thereby created, and conceal the scar engendered 
by so deep a wound. 

Meanwhile, Aimee, — unsuspicious of the extent of her 
gracelessness towards her uncle, and satisfied to perceive 
that Felix, after a few weeks’ incredulity and a few weeks’ 
amazement, had reconciled himself to his disappointment, 
and was turning his attention towards the full-blown charms 
of Clairette, the miller Besnard’s daughter, — pursued her 
customary avocations with a degree of cheerfulness derived 
from the consciousness of a duty fulfilled. A mountain was 
removed from her mind. Her assiduities to the old man 
were unembittered by the apprehension that a time would 
come when, loathing her husband, even her husband’s father 
might become an object of aversion. She even ceased to 
repine over the loss of her rural pleasures. 

“So long as my uncle survives I have a home,” said she 
to herself, on noticing the probability that Lambert’s new 
residence would shortly find a mistress in the person of a 
Madame Felix ; “ and when it pleases heaven to take the 
good old man to himself, I will not be a burden to my 
cousin. 1 will go into service. 1 have heard that, in her 
youth, my mother grew weary of Pierrevau, and went into 
service ; and I too will labor for my independence, and die 
in a home of my own providing.” 

For Aimee, whose cradle had been her mother’s dying 
bosom, knew' not that the poor victim had wandered back to 
Pierrevau, to lay her head in her native dust ; Lambert 


THE RAILROAD. 


89 


having gently checked his niece whenever her inquiries 
went near to detect the mystery of that earliest blot upon the 
page of her humble destinies. 

One evening, early in the autumn succeeding their estab- 
lishment at the station-house, Aimee, during the temporary 
absence of her cousin, who, as usual, had found his way to 
the mill, was gazing with vexation at the little patch of 
ground, composed of mortar and rubbish, and inaccessible 
to vegetation, surrounding their new habitation (so difter- 
*ent from the rich, deep, fertile, garden soil of the old cottage, 
whose carnations and sweetwilliams had been renowned in 
the country,) when her attention was arrested by the sound 
of a strange voice ; and she perceived a middle-aged travel- 
ler leaning from his horse towards the paling, and about to 
accost her. He had brought an especial letter of reccom- 
mendation from the commissioners of the railroad to Pere 
Lambert, aud wished to take up his abode for a few days at 
the station-house, instead of establishing himself in the noisy 
little inn recently set up in the valley. 

She proceeded, accordingly, to summon her uncle, and 
put all in order for the reception of the stranger. His horse 
was turned into the stable, his hat was taken from him, and 
a thousand welcomes bidden to one who came trebly enti- 
tled to hospitality — as a foreigner, an invalid, and the cho- 
sen friend of those who had dealt so liberally by Lambert in 
the disposal of his property. Two circumstances, however, 
seemed startling to Aimee as connected with the arrival of 
their unexpected guest ; the marked and perplexed interest 
with which he gazed upon herself, and the puzzled look 
with which her uncle examined his visitor. The latter pe- 
culiarity she expounded by her recollection of the intense 
dislike nourished by Lambert against the English, to which 
locomotive nation she every moment expected the stranger 
! would announce himself to belong. The former needed no 
explanation. It was no new thing to Aimee to find herself 
an object of attention. 

The traveller was , in fact an English gentleman of the 
name of Vernon, who, having passed a considerable portion 
of his life in India for the acquirement of fortune and disease, 
now applied his wealth to the assuagement of his maladies 
by incessant travel. He had traversed, he said, most parts 
VOL. ii. — 9 . 


90 


THE RAILROAD. 


of the Continent ; and, having paused for a few days at 
M — — , and heard much of the scenery of Pierrevau and 
the wonders of the railroad, obtained letters of recommenda- 
tion to the keepers of the various station-houses, and quitted 
his ponderous equipage for the enjoyment of an equestrian 
tour. 

All this was plausible enough. Lambert and his son were of 
opinion that nothing could be more natural than for the fine 
scenery of the valley to allure tourists to the spot ; and when, 
on the morrow, Mr. Vernon announced himself so much re- 
freshed by the excellent air of the place, as to be desirous of 
passing a week or ten days en pension with his new hosts, he 
had so far won upon the old man’s feelings that no objection 
was raised. His proposals were liberal, his manners gentle. 
His grey hair and wasted cheek begat a sympathy in Lam- 
bert’s heart ; and he was even forgiven the sin of being an 
Englishman, in favor of his enthusiasm for Pierrevau, and 
the mild humility of his demeanor. Felix rejoiced that his 
father should have some one to bear him company, when, at 
the close of the day’s duties, he set off for the mill ; and 
Aimee appeared to find a congenial spirit in the enlightened, 
far-travelled, deep-reatj, and patient invalid. Even when 
the appointed week, ten days fortnight, fixed for his sojourn 
elapsed, and Mr. Vernon again proposed its prolongation, 
the request was heard by all with pleasure. He had no 
vulgar fastidiousness; but, submitting himself to the habits 
of the place, seemed to make himself one of the family ; 
and, whether it were the the humble philosophy of Lambert 
that formed the fascination of the circle, or the unobtrusive 
loveliness of Lambert’s niece, certain it was that Monsieur 
Vernon experienced insuperable difficulties in quitting the 
spot. 

Even Aimee, at the close of three w'eeks, began to be a 
little moved by the close attention lavished on- her by the 
stranger. It was not that, for a single moment, he had 
overstepped the barrier of paternal interest becoming their 
relative age and position in the world. But why should Mr. 
Vernon follow her so closely in her walks ? — why so 
closely interrogate her sentiments on all possible subjects ? 
why so labor to acquaint himself with her views and feelings, 


THE RAILROAD. 


91 


unless from cherishing views and feelings of his own, of 
which she was the leading object ? 

“ You do not appear jealous of your cousin’s intention to 
bring home a bride, Aimee,” said he, one day, as they were 
sauntering together along the shrubby brow of a hill com- 
manding an extensive view of the railroad. “ Yet, but a 
short time ago, scarcely a year, you had made up your 
mind to become Madame Felix, and assume the direction 
of his household. How was it that your intentions changed 
so suddenly ? — How was it you could disappoint the pro- 
jects of your good uncle?” 

“ That you must inquire of those who have already initia- 
ted you so far into our family history,” replied the young 
girl, smiling. “ But my uncle has surely no reason to be 
discontented with the change. Clairette Besnard has four 
thousand crowns for her dowry, and is attached to my 
cousin Felix. 1 never loved him, otherwise than as a kind 
relation ; and am penniless.” 

“ Nevertheless, 1 am assured,” persisted Vernon, pausing 
to pluck a tuft of the wild scabious, and offer it to his com- 
panion, “that, until last autumn, you evinced no positive 
repugnance to the marriage arranged for you ; and that ’tis 
not the custom of the damsels of these cantons to exercise a 
choice in such matters.” 

“ It may be so,” replied Aimee, almost petulantly. 
“But my uncle is satisfied, my cousin is satisfied, I am satisfied, 
and what matters it that the gossips, our neighbours, find fault 
with me ?” — And, as she pushed her way somew hat briskly 
along the hill in order to escape further catechization, she 
could not help suspecting that some busy intermeddler had 
been talking to her new friend of a certain Monsieur Clement 
(the young engineer originally despatched into the valley by 
the projectors of the railroad,) who had been a singularly 
frequent guest at Lambert’s cottage, but who, from the pe- 
riod of the completion of his survey, had been heard of no 
more at Pierrevau. For even her uncle was secretly in- 
clined to trace the sudden change in Aimee’s disposition to 
the influence of this transient acquaintance. It was not till 
Monsieur Clement’s arrival, she had ever seemed conscious 
of an incompatibility between her own character and that of 
her cousin ; nor was it till six months after his departure, 


92 


THE RAILROAD. 


that she had declared .her intention of passing the remainder 
of her days in single blessedness. 

Yet, notwithstanding her jealous conjecture, neither 
Lambert, nor Felix, nor the Besnard family, nor any other 
officious Pierrevallite, had ever referred, directly, or indi- 
rectly, to the young engineer, in conversing with the English 
invalid. Where, then, could he have gathered his informa- 
tion ? — or were his inuendoes only the result of chance ? 

Her uncle, meanwhile, watched with some uneasiness the 
growing familiarity between his inmate and his niece. It 
was not that there was anything dangerously seductive in 
the outward man of the valetudinarian. But Lambert had 
good sense enough to feel that habitual intercourse with the 
polished and educated, was not likely to inspire his niece 
with a taste for the society of those of her own condition in 
life; and to fear that, in two months’ intimacy with young 
Clement had decided her that she could not hope for hap- 
piness in perpetual companionship with her illiterate cousin, 
the conversation of the more refined- Vernon was likely to 
complete the mischief. So strong, however, was his confi- 
dence in the excellences of his mild and melancholy guest, 
that he resolved to make known his fears, and appeal to his 
ow n sense of justice on the subject. 

“ Do not alarm yourself, my good friend,” was the frank 
Englishman’s reply to this singular avowal. “ Nothing is 
less likely than that 1 should acquire over Aimee’s mind the 
species of influence which you seem to think has been al- 
ready perniciously exercised. But this l promise you ; that 
if, at the expiration of another month’s sojourn in your 
family,— a month of unmolested intercourre w ith your neice, 
she should admit her feelings to be touched in my favor, I 
will instantly make her my wife. I am rich, — unencum- 
bered ; nay, do not break forth into declarations of disinter- 
estedness or professions of gratitude ; for, believe me, noth- 
ing is more improbable than such a contingency. — L have 
strong reasons for W'hat 1 advance,” 

This honorable engagement, notw ithstanding the disclaim- 
er by which it was qualified, tended at least to open the 
heart and mind of Lambert towards his guest, — the guest 
who thus identified himself with his family interests. 

“ 1 can scarce make out 1” — the old man would say, as 


THE RAILROAD. 


93 


they sat together under one of the spreading sycamores of 
the valley, flourishing so near the banks of the mill-stream 
as to have escaped the invasion of the railroad — “ I can 
scarcely yet explain to myself how you, sir, who belong to 
a nation I abhor, and have a right to abhor, have won so 
warmly on my esteem. It sometimes seems to me that I 
am fated in my latter age to lay aside all the natural likings 
and dislikings of my youth. All I loved as a boy is rooted 
up — past — forgotten — as though it had never existed. No 
trace remains of the home of my forefathers. There was 
an old pear-tree stood beside it, sir. Will you believe it 
that I, — a grown man, — and elder, — am sometimes inclined 
to sit dowrn and weep that it should have been cut down and 
burned in the fire ? — The railroad people paid me twice the 
value of the tree ; for my neighbors were ready to stand 
forward and attest how fine was the frui t > and how sure of 
purchase; and there is a seedling of the old stock in my 
friend Besnard’s garden. But will the price paid me, or 
four times as much, bring back to my old heart the thoughts 
and feelings that came thronging upon me as 1 sat under 
its green branches and thought of the time when, as a 
breechless urchin, I listened to my father and mother com- 
puting their expected gains from its produce, when the white 
blossoms were just bursting from the bough, showering new 
youth, as it were, upon the gnarled and hoary branches? 
How fondly they proposed, if the summer season proved 
prosperous and the fruit abundant, to give such and such 
comforts to the children, or make such and such provisions 
for the coming winter! I had a sister, sir, (I shall gain cour- 
age to speak more fully of her hereafter), a young, fair 
sister. I was nearly fourteen when she was born, and she 
Was almost as a child to me. How well do I remember 
fondling her an infant, in my arms, under that old pear tree; 
and afterwards reproving her, when 1 could fix her attention 
and draw her aside under its shadow unobserved by her pa- 
rents, when she grew up into a wild, gay girl, and my poor 
wife admonished me that Anna sadly needed chiding !” 

Vernon gave an involuntary start, and uttered a scarcely 
conscious sigh, as Lambert proceeded in his monologue. 

(i And now, the cursed railroad, which seems to have 
made me rich only to make me lonesome, runs where that 
VOL. II. 9* 


94 


THE RAILROAD. 


pear-tree stood ! The spring-tide comes, and I no longer see 
its white blossoms trembling bride-like in the breeze ; and 
no cool, green, glossy shade quivers in summer beside my 
door, to allure me forth into the freshness, where 1 may sit 
meditating upon the mercies and greatness of God ! I seem 
to have lost my only remaining friend, sir, in that old tree !” 

“ You forget your son,” remonstrated Yernon. 

“ No ! 1 do not forget him — I should deserve that God 
might forget me were l so ungrateful,” replied the old 
peasant. “ But for years and years, it was my darling hope 
that he would be brought nearer as it were to my affections, 
by marrying with all that remained to me of my precious 
Anna, my sweet sister ; and giving me grandchildren that 
might wear her look, and bear her name, and renew round 
my declining years the recollections that are almost begin- 
ning to fade from my mind. But Aimee’s obstinacy decreed 
it otherwise ; and I have had too fatal a warning in my time, 
to try to subdue by opposition the working of a woman’s 
will. And now, Felix is about to bring home a stranger to 
take Aimee’s place, and be to me as a daughter. Clairette 
is a good girl, l believe, but she is quick, loud, prone to 
noisy junketing, very different from my soft, peaceful-heart- 
ed niece ; and I cannot reconcile myself to the change. 
And should what you have spoken of come to pass, should 
the poor girl, in spite of the difference of age betwixt you, 
really evince a preference so as to induce you to make her 
your wife, think, sir, think of 'all I should lose! You will 
remove her from Pierrevau — from France ; will make a lady 
of her, will perhaps render her even ashamed of per parent- 
age and kindred ; and I shall become hopeless and helpless 
in my old age ! Better for me to give up the ghost upon her 
wedding day !” And again the old man wrung his hands, 
and wept bitterly. 

“ Make your mind easy, worthy friend,” exclaimed Yer- 
non, entering warmly into his feelings. “ I, at least, shall 
never be instrumental in the disunion you anticipate. Nay ! 
why should 1 not repay your confidence by equal candour? 
Why not avow, at once, that to become the husband of 
your niece has never entered into my calculations ? Al- 
though you have not named him, I can scarcely fancy you 
have forgotten the existence of Clement, the engineer, your 


THE RAILROAD. 


95 


guest last season ? That youth, my good Lambert, is very 
dear to me. 1 know that, during his visit to Pierrevau, he 
attached himself to your niece j but that, dependent upon 
me for his means of subsistence, he made no attempt to en- 
gage her affections in return. He persuaded himself that I 
should not be moved to consent to his union with a peasant’s 
child ; nor was it till very lately, in noticing a painful alter- 
ation in his health and spirits, I obtained from my young 
friend an avowal of his attachment. From that moment, I 
did not hesitate. Resolved to ascertain by personal obser- 
vation the worthiness of its object ere I sanctioned the sac- 
rifice of higher prospects, I came hither to judge for myself. 
I saw in Aimee all that was endearing and attractive ; and 
the honesty with which, in rejecting this very morning the 
offer of my own hand and fortune (tendered as a touchstone 
of her affections for — for my — my protege), she admitted 
her previous attachment, and even — generous girl ! ex- 
plicitly named its object, has determined me in her favour. 
Let the young couple be happy together. To Clement I 
will secure a liberal independence, enabling him to cultivate 
his profession for the benefit of his future family, rather than 
from present necessity. The Chateau de Massignac, be- 
tween M and Pierrevau, is on sale, and may be pur- 

chased to afford them a summer house within reach of 
Aimee’s kind uncle. There , my good Lambert, you and I 
will meet together every futur£ summer, and find some aus- 
picious substitute for the old pear-tree, and a solace for for- 
mer afflictions.’’ 

Vernon held out his hand cordially as he spoke ; but 
Lambert, absorbed in reflection, neglected to accept the 
| pledge. 

; “ You have not yet explained your intentions to my 

niece ?” faltered he, with blanched cheeks, while the dew 
of perturbation rose on his withered temples. 

“ Not yet.” 

“ Thank Heaven !” 

« Why thank Heaven ! I have taken my determination 
deliberately, and am not likely to repent. To-morrow, in 
j your own presence, I will disclose all to Aimee.” 

“ Would it were likely !” murmured poor Lambert. “But 
j noble as are your views, they cannot be brought to pass. 


96 the railroad. 

There exist obstacles rendering such a marriage impossible.” 

“ I heartily hope not !” cried the Englishman, almost be- 
ginning to share the emotion of his companion. ‘‘My heart 
is set upon it.” 

“ Would it be still set on the marriage,” inquired Lam- 
bert, in a scarcely audible vo:ce, “ if you learned that my 
innocent niece was the offspring of guilt ? If, instead of being 
the child of honest peasant parents, a parentage to w hich 
you adverted just now as a more than sufficient stigma, you 
were to find her the daughter, the illegitimate daughter, of a 
scoundrel? No! you would not! 1 read her condemnation 
in your silence ! It is only I, her uncle, the brother of the 
victim, who could take the poor girl to my heart, and deal 
towards her as if she were the descendant of princes !” 

“ You are mistaken,” was the Englishman’s mild rejoin- 
der. “ My hesitation proceeded from no such motive. I 
too, on the contrary, have my painful confessions to make. 
Clement also is a natural son.” 

A ray of joy illumined the countenance of Lambert. 
“That I should rejoice in such a thing!” cried he. “ Yet 
all is for the best ! Heaven, in this matter, has ministered 
directly for our happiness. But it is fit that you should 
know more, sir, should know' all, ere you pledge yourself 
definitively to the performance of your promises. 

“ Monsieur Vernon, I have already expressed to you the 
warmth of my affection for that young sister who might al- 
most have passed for a daughter of my own. Nor was poor 
Anna less preciously dear to her parents. She w-as the 
child of their old age, as it w 7 ere, the child almost of their 
dotage ; so that they neglected to check, in the disposition 
of their darling, such indications of willfulness as, at a more 
rational epoch of life, would not have been suffered to ex- 
pand to her destruction. My own wife was the first to point 
out to me that Anna’s perversity might, at some miserable 
moment, tend to her destruction ; and when, a year or two 
after my marriage (which was an arrangement concluded by 
my parents), my friend Besnard proposed to become the 
husband of our pretty Anna, and, suitable as such a match 
would have been for her, she positively and tenaciously 
refused her consent, I began to see that my poor woman 
was in the right ; and that among us all, we had been 


THE RAILROAD. 


97 


guilty ot ruining the poor girl’s disposition, by pernicious 
indulgence. For no sooner did Anna perceive that my 
father was bent on making her the wife of our neighbour 
the miller, than off she went at once from Pierrevau ! She 
had unfortunately money enough in her savings’ purse to 
command t lie means of escape ; and, leaving a few lines in 
her chamber to acquaint us that she had made up her mind 
to work out an honest independence rather than become a 
burthen to her family, or the wife of a man who was the 
object of her aversion, she disappeared from the place ! — 

“ What a day it was in the old cottage when Anna was 
missed ! She was but sixteen years of age, the favourite, the 
idol, the darling of all our hearts and eyes! And to show 
so little care for us ! You may guess that it was a sore trial ! 
From my grey-headed grandfather to little Felix, then a 
prattling infant, all wept for her, all pined after her. One 
minute, my father and mother swore to banish her forever 
from their affections, and her very name was to be named 
among us no more ; the next, they would have been glad 
to kneel down and kiss the dust under her feet, had she 
crossed the threshold of the cottage. 

“ But. alas ! she put not our tenderness to the trial. 
She came no more. While all was grief and lamentation 
under her father’s roof, Anna, it seems, arrived in safety in 
the great city, of which during his courtship Besnard had 
been so fond of boasting to her; and her beauty, youth, and 
artlessness availed to place her, without further recommen- 
dation, in a magazin in Paris; one of those embroidery- 
shops for ladies’ work, where a forewoman of attractive ap- 
pearance is so valuable an acquisition. It was from thence 
sir, she wrote to acquaint her parents that she was well, 
safe, happy, and in a way towards the accomplishment of 
her desires; satisfied that she had done wisely in avoiding, 
by an extreme measure, a marriage which must have ended 
in misery. 

“ My father and mother began to reconcile themselves to 
her absence, seeing that she seemed to speak so reasonably, 
and to have placed herself under such respectable protec- 
tion ; and even when, six months afterwards, she wrote a 
second time, informing us she had been persuaded to accept 
the situation of waiting-maid in an English family of distinc- 


98 


THE RAILROAD. 


tion, the privacy of which she preferred to the fatigue and 
exposure of a shop, it was only the idea of menial seivitude 
in our family which grieved us for Anna s sake. But you 
seem indisposed, sir,” continued Lambert, checking himself, 
— “ You look pale, — faint. Let us return to the house, and 
I can conclude my melancholy story when you are more 
disposed to listen.” 

“ No,” replied Vernon, averting his head — “ I cannot be 
more disposed to listen than now. My interest is only too 
painfully excited.” 

“Just at that period,” resumed Lambert, “my whole at- 
tention was absorbed by the decay and death of my poor 
wife ; and, about a year after her decease, the boy she had 
left me fell into a grievous fever; so that, with family cares 
of one kind or other, I had scarcely leisure to become anx- 
ious, when my mother sometimes reminded me that Anna 
had ceased to write ; that, travelling with English heretics, 
she had perhaps ceased to take thought of Pierrevau and 
her family ; and that something must surely be amiss. But 
at length, one chilly spring evening (l remember it, alas ! as 
a thing of yesterday,) I was returning from the mill whither 
I had been to consult Besnard’s new wife touching the 
sickness of my son ; when as I turned across the fields from 
the stream towards our old cottage, methought I heard a 
voice calling upon my name. 

“The sound was at once faint and shrill ; but it seemed 
to say — ‘ Lamebrt — Lambert !’ in a tone that brought the 
blood up to my very temples; so familiar it was, and yet so 
strange. For a moment 1 was superstitious enough to think 
of mv poor wife, who was dead and gone ; for 1 discovered 
the glimmering of a white figure beneath the hazel bushes 
near the river, and fancied the poor soul could not rest in her 
grave, but was come forth to greet me by the way with 
counsel for the sake of the child who had been so dear to 
her. Nay, 1 could scarcely find breath to answer, till the 
faint voice called upon me again — ‘Lambert — Lambert!’ 
and in a moment the recollection of my dear little sister 
rushed upon my mind ! — ‘ Anna is surely dead in some 
foreign country,’ I thought, ‘and behold her spirit has wan- 
dered home !’ — for no one could have dreamed that the 
voice, or the being who soon stood beside me, belonged to 


THE RAILROAD. 


99 


human life and breath. But, when her tears fell on my 
cheek, and her bosom heaved upon mine, and she whis- 
pered, ‘My brother — a poor broken-hearted creature is 
come home to die at your feet !’ then I knew that it was 
indeed my living sister I held in my arms ; and that the 
world had gone sorely with one whose childhood had been 
so happy, and whose youth so cherished ! 

“And so we sat down together in the twilight upon a 
green bank ; and I dared not even give vent to the grieved 
and angry feelings with which I listened to the poor girl’s 
wrongs and sufferings; for so afflicted and so exhausted was 
she, that I feared every moment might prove her last. 
Auna was about to become a mother, sir, and her child was 
the child of misery ; — yea, even the child whom you have 
destined to become the wife of one whom I cannot but sup- 
pose your son.” And Lambert groaned aloud, and hid his 
face with his hands, ere he proceeded ; nor was it till the 
Englishman, grasped his arms with energy, implored him to 
continue his recital, that he found words for the details ofhis 
family disgrace. 

“ Her first prayer to me was to conceal her arrival for a 
time from the knowledge of her parents, till 1 had found oc- 
casion to divulge, at least to her mother, the grievous mo- 
tives of her return. So we lingered and lingered among the 
thickets till nightfall ; and, when all was stillness and sleep 
in the old cottage, she crept in, like a guilty thing ; and it 
was in my poor wife’s chamber (which for a year past had 
been closed up from use) that 1 laid the wanderer down to 
rest. And truly she needed rest ; for a sorer sight of weari- 
ness and want, and woe, never presented itself, than when I 
unclasped her mantle, and laid aside her head-gear, and 
looked face to face upon her who three years before, had 
been the boast and pride of Pierrevau ! 

Next day, 1 had no difficulty in conveying food to the 
room ; and began to hope I should find time to break the 
matter by degrees to the old people, eie the worst came to 
pass. But it might not be. The agitation of finding her- 
self a shamed and miserable outcast under the roof she had 
left in her willfulness, — pure, stainless, uncontaminated,— 
proved too much for my poor sister. The pangs of travail 
came hurriedly on ; and anxiously as I contrived to pro- 


100 


THE RAILROAD. 


cure her matron aid from the village, and careful as she was, 
in the extremity of her anguish, to suppress every moan, 
every murmur that might betray her to the inmates of the 
cottage, — my mother’s suspicions became directed towards 
the deserted chamber. However unjustifiable her opinion 
that I could be tempted to dishonor the home of my father, 
— the deathbed of my wife, — by a scene of infamy, began 
to entertain a mistrust of misdoings, which induced her to 
steal up after me into the chamber, and ascertain what was 
going on. 

“ What a scene to meet a mother’s eye ! When the 
poor woman softly stole into what she had rashly judged to 
be the chamber of dalliance, there — faint, pallid, death- 
stricken, — a wretched infant wailing by her side, — lay the 
darling of her age ; — even as yet scarcely more than a 
child, but already lost — already doomed to the dust ! In a 
moment my mother lay insensible on the threshhold ; and, 
ere I found strength to bear her from the room, my father, 
roused by the noise, tottered there in his turn, to bestow his 
malediction on a head whereon he had so long been accus- 
tomed to lavish blessings!” . 

Vernon wiped the cold dew from his forehead, but re- 
mained silent. 

“ Judge, sir, of the care it cost me,” at length resumed 
his companion, “ to subdue the rage o( one, to pacify the 
anguish of the other, and, above all, to raise and cheer the 
spirits of the sinking, dying woman ! It was already too 
late to hope for Anna’s survival ; hut it would have been 
too much to feel that she expired under her father’s curse, — 
her mother’s reprobation. ForJ after all, sir, she was our 
own still ; our flesh, our blood, our once loved nursling, 
whom we had petted and nurtured into folly ; nay, and still 
uncontaminaied, as you may judge by listening to the avow- 
als which, during the few days she was yet spared, she con- 
fided to the ear of her brother. 

“ The people by whom she had been persuaded to quit 
her way of life were of first-rate family and fortune, even in 
that strange country of England, where money and conse- 
quence appear so plentiful. The father had been one of 
the king’s ministers ; and having resigned his place in a fit 
of testiness, was travelling on the Continent to conceal his 


THE RAILROAD. 


101 


own discomfiture, but on pretence of completing the educa- 
tion of his daughters, whom he suffered to run wiid as they 
listed — all for wantonness, all for sport, all for pleasure — so 
that they interfered not with his graver avocations. But 
there was, unluckily, a brother too, — a brother whom the 
old lord saw fit to make the companion of his travels, in order 
that his daughters might not require from himself the attend- 
ance and protection which apparently they so much needed. 
Th is Ed ward (Anna on her deathbed named him only as 
her Edward) was not destined to succeed to the wealth and 
titles of his father. In your country it seems there exists 
among the great that scandalous preference for the first-born 
son, which creates a few vast estates and an unreckonable 
diffusion of misery ; and Edward was destined to repair the 
injury inflicted upon him by his parents by exile to a far off 
Indian country — a place, 1 think called Ceylon — among 
heathens and beasts of prey. By way, I suppose, of recon- 
ciling the young man to his future alienation, he was the 
one selected by his father to accompany the family in wan- 
dering about the rich, fertile, and h^ppy plains of France ! 
The others were pursuing their education at home : some to 
gain a livelihood by becoming priests, some soldiers, some 
even laywers, — so strange are your English notions of noble- 
ness and dignity ! — 

“All this was gradually confided by the young man to 
the unfortunate gill whom his giddy sisters had selected as 
a favorite, and of whom they soon took no further note than 
as a menial paid to do their bidding, and pretty enough to 
do honor to their service; while Edward was only 
too glad to find an ear to listen to him, and a n eye 
to look kindly on him, when he expressed his apprehensions 
of approaching banishment. He was ever loitering at home 
with Anna, instead of accompanying his sisters to their fa- 
vorite scenes of dissipation ; till, irritated by his negligence, 
the young ladies opened their eyes to the fact that their 
brother was too young, their favorite attendant too fair, to 
be left together with impunity. But, instead of doing jus- 
tice to themselves and Ann by instant dismissal, these spoil- 
ed children of fortune sealed the impending evil by dealing 
harshly with their protege. They taunted, reprehended, 
nay, overwhelmed my poor sister with their scoin ipot? 

VOL. n. — 10 


102 


THE RAILROAD. 


after all, what was she but their waiting-maid ?) — till Ed- 
ward fancied it incumbent on him to comfort the poor, 
weeping, mortified girl. In short, sir (for why delay the se- 
quel ?) Anna, while dreaming of becoming tbe young 
man’s wife, and sailing with him for that eastern country 
of which he began to speak in raptures the moment he in- 
dulged a hope of her companionship, became in tbe first 
instance his mistress ,* and, w hen the rash caresses of the 
boy-lover accelerated the discovery of his secret, but one of 
the two was fated to pay the penalty of their mutual fault. 

The girl — ‘the good-for-nothing foreigner’ — was turned 
out characterless, destitute, despairing ; while his son was 
dispatched to England, on his way to the East, under the 
care of a clergyman, a friend of the family ; the old Lord 
laughing heartily, and scarcely aside, at the notion that his 
favorite son had so early distinguished himself as a sedu- 
cer. 

“ Such is the world, sir ! Events that bring with them 
shame, heart-break, death, eternal punishment, are jested 
upon by many as exploits deserving indulgence — perhaps 
applause ; and while Anna, after concealing her miseries 
till tl ie sad hour approached too nearly to be trifled with, 
wandered home to die, — to convey disgrace to an honest 
man’s homestead, and despair to her wretched parents, — 
Edward proceeded triumphantly to his distant home, priding 
himself on the ruin he had achieved, and ” 

“No, no, no! — you wrong him grievously !” exclaimed 
Vernon, no longer able to repress his emotions. “ All that he 
could attempt he did. Subjected to the strictest control by 
the guardian imposed upon me by my father, I wrote in ev- 
ery direction where 1 imagined that my poor Anna might 
have sought a retreat. 1 wrote again, and again, and again, 
and still no answer. Vain were my remonstrances, my 
tears. I was shipped off, under the influence of my fath- 
er’s authority, for Ceylon — banished beyond all hope of re- 
turn. But believe me that, from the miserable hour we 
were torn asunder, my hopes, my thoughts were with her. 
I had no ambition but to secure a competence, return to 
Europe, make her my wife, and sacrifice every more aspir- 
ing project to her happiness.” 

“ You!” — exclaimed Lambert, starting from Vernon’s side 


THE RAILROAD. 


103 


as from contact with some venomous reptile — u you 1 Are 
you, then, the seducer — you the destroyer \ the man who 
bote down my sister’s young head to the dust, and brought 
my father’s grey li airs with sorrow to the crave? — 

Your— 

And Vernon could only avert his face, and tacitly ad- 
mit his guiltiness. 

“ And your poor deserted child ! — cried Lambert again, 
— “ she whom, for her mother’s sake, l have reared so ten- 
derly, and of whom, for all these years, her wretched father 
demeaned himself not so far as to inquire ! — the waiting 
woman's child — the ” 

“ Again I say you wrong me !” remonstrated Vernon, but 
in a tone of gentlest and most unresenting humanity. “ All 
that I at first promised myself I strictly fulfilled, and thereby 
lurks a mystery which must be instantly sought out and elu- 
cidated. — Finding it impossible to gain a clue to Anna’s 
place of shelter, l resigned myself as I might, to the duty 
of conquering an independence to enable me to return to 
my native country, — visit France. — and prosecute my in- 
qu tries in person. — Instead of fulfilling rny father’s inten- 
tions by remaining in the East for the acquirement of a col- 
lossal fortune to impart lustre to a younger branch of the 
Vernon family, I contented myself with a third of the pro- 
vision specified as indispensable to the dignity of my name, 
and returned in haste to Europe. 

“ Brief was my stay in my native country. In my own home 
I found all desolate. My father had expired during my pas- 
sage ; my elder brother, his successor, united in marriage with 
one of the haughtiest daughters of the aristocracy, received 
me almost as a stranger ; my sisters were brilliantly estab- 
lished and presiding over scattered households of their own ; 
my brothers were dispersed by the interest of their several 
professions. The mighty bond of family affection, in hum- 
ble life so powerful and so consolatory, was wanting in the 
house of Vernon ; and, instead of reuniting' from time to 
time, to compare mutually the brightness or blackness of 
their scroll of destinies, my brothers and sisters met no 
more, or met only amid the tumultuous pageantry of the 
great world. From all this heartlessness I turned away. 
In eager hope I turned to France, where 1 trusted that my 


104 


THE RAILROAD. 


affianced wife might still survive, to realize a far warmer 
dream of human happiness. 1 visited Paris, — 1 consulted 
the records of the police, — I advertised in all the papers; 
but, alas! no Anna replied. — I examined every source of 
information, Lambert, but could gain no intelligence of 
your sister ! — 

“ Driven to despair, I thought, at length, of visiting the 
bourgeoise from whose magazin my sisters had, in the first 
instance, withdrawn the unfortunate girl ; and, after some 
demur, Madame Remond informed me that my repentance 
came too late, — that Anna had expired in giving birth to her 
child. 

“‘But that child, at least, survives?” was my first eager 
interrogation, on recovering the shock conveyed by this in- 
telligence. And my informant not only replied in the affir- 
mative, but that the little boy had ever since remained under 
her protection. On the following day, Clement was clasp- 
ed in my arms, and acknowledged as my son !” 

“Vile imposture!” exclaimed Lambert with indignation. 
“From the moment Anna quitted that woman’s roof, no 
communication had passed between them.” 

“ Your narrative has convinced me,” replied the English- 
man, “ that my over-eagerness has rendered me the dupe of 
villany. The boy to whom they saw me so willing to ex- 
tend my heart and fortune, was doubtless some indigent rel- 
ative of the Remonds, — a nephew or grandson, — for whom 
they thought it worth while to secure the advantages prof- 
ferred by my inconsiderate frankness. I have reared him 
as my own, loved him as my own, loved him even with a 
wisdom of love enabling me to surmount the doting impul- 
ses of my heart. Instead of holding forth to my son pros- 
pects of a brilliant independence, 1 have given him a pro- 
fession, instilled into his mind the love of occupation, and 
stimulated him to the exercise of his own brilliant abilities. 
Clement has fortunately already distinguished himself in a 
distinguished career ; thrice fortunate for him now, — when 
I must learn to withdraw from him, not only the tender af- 
fection of which he has been the object, but the prospects 
of opulence to which another possesses a legitimate claim.” 

“ To estrange your affections, wholly and at once, from 
one who has been unto you as a son,” observed Lambert, 


THE RAILROAD. 


105 


w ouid be an afflicting effort. Since it is your intention to 
make my niece bis wile, why not remove all difficulties by 
persisting in your project of uniting the 3 oung people ?” 

u Such a scheme requires deliberation.’’ rejoined Mr. 
Vernon. u 1 do not, for an instant, implicate my boy (still 
I must call him so !) in the iniquities of his relatives ; but I 
must search out the mystery — perhaps expose, perhaps chas- 
tise, the offence. Nor am I altogether certain of the pres- 
ent state of my daughter’s affections.” 

“ On that point,” interrupted Lambert, “ entertain no 
further doubt. Now that 1 am enabled to connect together 
the events of the last eighteen months, 1 perceive that an 
attachment for Clement was the sole origin of all that has 
struck me as inconsistent in her conduct.” 

It was from the lips of his acknowledged daughter — the 
child of his beloved Anna — clasped within his arms and 
weeping on his bosom, that Mr. Vernon obtained confirma- 
tion of an opinion which seemed to remove every obstacle 
to his happiness. Before he proceeded to summon the young 
engineer to Pierrevau, he visited Paris; and, after giving 
vent to his just indignation at the imposture by which he 
had been defrauded, succeeded in obtaining from Madame 
Remond a confession that the child she had basely imposed 
upon him, was the orphan of her own daughter ; — a desti- 
tute boy, in whose favor she had been unable to resist the 
temptation of appropriating those benefits promised by the 
lover of Anna. 

Nor does it appear that the resentment of Mr. Vernon 
was harshly prolonged ; for six months had not elapsed from 
the period of his explanation with Lambert, when the young 
couple were settled at the Chateau de Massignac under the 
protection of their father and friend, with the grey-headed 
brother of Anna as their guest. 

Felix, as the happy husband of Clairette, was already 
installed as lord and master of the station-house of the rail- 
road, of which Clement had been appointed chief engineer; 
and Lambert rejoiced to quit Pierrevau, — busy, bustling 
Pierrevau, — and, seated with the hypocrandic Vernon in 
some shady recess of the gardens of Massignac, moralise 
over the past, — over the vicissitudes and troubles of human 
life,- — the lights and shades of human affection, — the pros- 
vol. 11 . — 10* 


106 


THE RAILROAD. 


pects of a better world, a purer state of being ; or, reverting 
from generalities to the details of their especial fortune, re- 
turn thanks to Heaven for the singular providence which 
had guided Vernon to the grave of his Anna, and the abode 
of his long-alienated child, by engaging the professional la- 
bors of his suppositious son in the construction of the Rail- 
road. 


THE MARINERS OF THE POLLET. 


Closely adjoining the town of Dieppe in Normnady is a 
suburb called the Pollet, which, though divided from it by 
the estuary of a river scarcely a quarter the width of the 
Thames, differs as completely from the parent town in 
manners and customs, dialect and costume, as the capital of 
j England from that of Spain. 

The Pollet is supposed by historians to have been colo- 
nised by the crews of vessels from some Mediterranean port 
j the dialect of the Polletais, or Poltais, containing a number of 
Italian words, and resembling in idiom and pronunciation 
that of the Lazzaroni of .Naples rather than the French lan- 
guage. Their original costume, also, is strictly Italian ; and 
their bigoted superstition savors of Italian origin ; while the 
barcarolles with which the mariners mark the measure of 
their oars as the fishing boats are rowed back into the har- 
bour, might almost be mistaken for those of Venice ; the 
letter j and g being pronounced by the Poltais as by the 
Venetians, — z. 

The peculiarities of the tribe, thus strangely isolated, can 
of eo se have been preserved, through succeeding ages, 
only by force of strong prejudice and extreme superstition. 

* In the letters patent, by which, in 1283, Philip III ceded to the 
Archbishop of Rouen his crown lands in the Pollet, the place is styled 
“ Villa dc Poleto .” 


108 


THE MARINERS 


It was inculcated as a matter of religious observance among 
them from sire to son, that a Poltais must match with a 
Poltaise, and that any deviation of costume was an offence 
against the community. Though a Poltais family might 
cross the harbor on the Sabbath to perform its devotions in 
the noble church of St. Remy, or the cathedral of St. Jaques 
(the patron of the fishermen, of which the population of the 
Pollet is entirely composed,) yet, on occasions of such 
family celebrations as marriages or baptisms, they never 
failed to solemnize their rites in their own humble chapel 
of Notre Dame des Greves — a temple which might pass, 
belfry and all, through the porch of either of the Dieppois 
churches without bowing its head. If at times the town of 
Dieppe have arrived at high prosperity, and distinguished itself 
in the annals of the country, the Pollet has neither conde- 
scended to ape its fashions nor to court, reflected from its 
face a ray of royal sunshine or civic advancement. Man- 
sions of considerable dignity have arisen in Dieppe, worthy 
to afford.shelter to Napoleon and the Duchesse de Berri in 
their successive days of triumph. But the Pollet contains 
not a single house of mark ; remaining composed (as in the 
days of the bombardment of Dieppe by the English in 
1694) of a few narrow streets, inhabited by mariners and 
their families, and the petty tradesmen requisite to supply 
their wants. An ancient convent converted into a barrack, 
and a modern prison and house of correction, are the only 
buildings of consequence in the little suburb of the Pollet ; 
which is comprised between the mouth of the harbor and 
the base of the chalky cliffs overlooking the junction of the 
river Dieppe with the sea. 

Within a few years, indeed, the connexion between the 
town and suburb has been drawn closer by the construc- 
tion of a passerelle or floating bridge, facilitating the inter- 
course of their respective inhabitants, long interrupted by 
the ruinous state of the ancient bridge of the Pollet. But 
till the middle of the last century, the differences between 
the Poltais and Dieppis amounted almost to the feudes of 
rival factions. The former appear, indeed, to partake of 
the fiery particles of those Castilian children of the sun from 
whom they are supposed by many to have their origin ; 
while, as and instance of the violence of their opinions and 


OF THE POLLET. 


109 


doggedness of their obstinacy, it is related that D’Aubigne, 
Archbishop of Rouen, coming to preach at the church of 
St. Remy in Dieppe, after having suspended from his duties 
one of the vicars of the Pollet suspected of inclining towards 
the reformed church, the Poltais, not choosing to be con- 
fessed by any but their favorite priest, proceeded in 
a body to the church, clambered up the rails of the chancel, 
and, with vehement threats and imprecations, drove the 
Archbishop from the celebration of the mass into the sacristy. 
In the sequel, the prelate was compelled to restore the offi- 
ciating vicar to his office, having departed furtively from the 
town in the dread that the contumacious Poltais might exe- 
cute the threat of seizing the Archbishop and flinging him 
into the harbor over the bridge of the Pollet, which he 
must traverse in order to proceed to his visitations in Nor- 
mandy. 

About the year 1800, a small house in the Grande Rue 
of this curious suburb was in the possession of a family of 
the name of Crosnier, by one of whose forefathers it was 
constructed nearly two centuries before. Pierre Crosnier, 
the father, was accounted in his neighborhood a wealthy 
man ; being proprietor, not only of the aforesaid solid dwel- 
ling house of stone, consisting of two stories and a grenier , 
but of a fishing-smack, known by the name of the Belle 
Gabrielle, esteemed the best weatherboat belonging to the 
port of Dieppe. The Crosniers were, in fact, a prosperous 
generation. It was recorded that the dwelling in the Pollet, 
having been completed scarcely twelve months before the 
great bombardment by which the town was destroyed and 
the principal inhabitants deprived of shelter, was hired at a 
high price by one of the notables as a refuge for his family 
during the reconstruction of his own ; and that, on quitting 
it two years afterwards to take possession of his new resi- 
dence in the Rue de l’Epee, the tenant marked his satisfac- 
tion towards his host by endowing him with the household 
furniture wherewith he had replenished his abode. This 
might account for Crosnier’s possession of two richly-carved 
armoires, or cupboards of oak, and two old-fashioned beds 
of walnut wood, with a set of high-backed chairs and cum- 
brous tables to match ; which, together with a huge screen 
of guilt leather gracing the parlor, still commanded the ad- 


110 


THE MARINERS 


miration of the Pollet. But we must look to more recent 
sources of prosperity as the origin of the prodigious supply 
of household "linen filling the armoires in question; to say 
nothing of the twelve clumsy couverts d argent , and soup- 
ladle and coffee-spoons of the same material, which distin- 
guished the board of Jacques Crosnier from those ol his less 
wealthy brother mariners. The family was not only well 
to do in the world, but appeared uniformly prospered by the 
same good luck. It was calculated in the harbor that finer 
turbots were despatched to the Paris market by the owner 
of the Belle Gabrelle than by all the other fisherman of the 
Pollet ; and the first haul of mackerel for the season, and 
first freight of herrings, was sure to reach the port from the 
nets of Pierre Crosnier. 

The fisherman’s family consisted of two sons ; the elder, 
Jacques, being named after the holy patron of his calling, 
and the younger, Maxime, after his grandfather. His help- 
mate was a jolly soul, some four feet in circumference, 
whose ruddy brown complexion and comely countenance pro- 
claimed that in her earlier days she had shared the toils of 
her husband, exposed to the scorching sun as retailer of his 
wares in the fish market. But Madame Crosnier enjoyed a 
distinction far beyond that conferred by her comely lace, or 
the rich garniture of Valenciennes lace in which it was en- 
veloped, or even by her rights as wife to a thriving house 
and ship holder. Madame Crosnier was, according to con- 
tinental phrase, “ nee Piereite Bouzard,” being daughter, 
sister, and aunt to those three remarkable mariners of Dieppe, 
who having, as pilots of the port, preserved from shipwreck 
and other maritime disasters more lives than the Hotel Dieu 
has saved by its medicaments, were honoured by Napoleon 
with golden medals, commemorating their prowess, and the 
free gilt of a substantial dwelling-house, erected on the jetty 
for their hereditary use, and bearing the inscription, “ Don 
de la Pa trie /” — 

The brother of Pierrette had even appeared at the Court 
of Louis XVI to receive from the hands of Marie Antoinette 
th e cross of St. Lo uis as a reward for his services; and on 
his return from this visit to Versailles, honoured with the 
title of “ le brave homme ” by his royal hosts and their 
courtiers, Bouzard had undertaken the part of sponsorship 


OF THE POLLET. 


Ill 


for little Maxi ne Crosnier, now a flourishing lad of twenty- 
one. 

On account, perhaps, of this auspicious circumstance, 
M axime became a soi l of pet in the family. It is true the 
boy bad fair to emulate the renown of his maternal kinsfolk, 
having distinguished himself by exploits of courage and 
address in t Lie harbour, at an age when most youngsters are 
clinging to their mother’s apron-strings. But M axime, in 
bis blue woollen jacket and woollen cap, and trousers of 
coarse canvass, was seen one moment c 1 i n sz; i n tr to the main- 
top of some Norwegian sloop, and the next diving to the 
bottom after some object flung overboard by the crew as 
an incentive to his attempts, till his adventurous spirit ren- 
dered him as great a favourite with the sailors of the Pollet, 
and the crews of the foreign merchantmen 9 trading with 
Dieppe, as with his own parents. 

The high spirit of Maxime was rendered more apparent 
by the inertness and taciturnity of his elder brother. Jacques 
Crosnier, though bred amid the perils and pastimes of sea- 
faring men, displayed a natural distaste for his father’s voca- 
tion, which grew with his increasing years. Old Bouzard, 
apprehensive, perhaps, that his grandson might in some case 
of emergency evince a want of hardihood discreditable to 
the family, at length backed the boy’s entreaties to his father 
to be allowed to settle to some sedentary trade; and, after 
innumerable family dissensions, Jacques was apprenticed to 
an ivory-carver (a trade which for three centuries has afford- 
ed a monopoly to Dieppe, where, early in the sixteenth, it 
originated in the trade of the Dieppois with the gold coast, 
of which they were the first discoverers. 

In his new calling the sober youth displayed capacities 
| for which he obtained little credit among liis relations. A 
i hardy, blustering race, they had no patience to see a fine 
likely lad weary out his days at a turning-lathe, or in scrap- 
ing with a file at a slender piece of ivory, to form spillikens 
: for the toyshops. 

Even when, at the expiration of five years’ close attention 
! to his business, Jacques Crosnier was enabled to present to 
his mother, on her fete day, one of those full-rigged minia- 
ture frigates in ivory which constitute the chef d'ceuvres of 
the trade, together with two exquisitely carved figures of 


112 


TH^J MARINERS 


our Lady and her patron Saint Peter, with his keys, to form 
a suite of ornaments for the mantel-piece of her state parlour, 
the jolly dame could not help attaching more value to the 
branches of coral and glossy shells brought home by Maxi- 
me from his first voyage to the West Indies, than to the 
elaborate productions of her more gifted first-born. Maxime, 
with his fine frank countenance and hearty disposition, still 
remained the favourite child. 

Maxime, meanwhile, devoted to his brother the strongest 
affections of a warm and loving heart. Though the partiali- 
ty injudiciously betrayed by their parents might afford some 
slight pretext for the envy and jealousy of the elder brother, 
it should have been disarmed by the generosity with which 
Maxime, disdaining to profit by his influence, seized every 
occasion of displaying to advantage the talents and industry 
of Jacques, and bringing forward to the notice of the family 
his claims and deserts ; still, Maxime enjoyed the Benja- 
min’s portion. It was Maxime whom the old folks called 
to their side when, on Sundays or fete days, the family pro- 
ceeded together to dance at the guinguettes of Jawval or 
Martin 1’Eglise. It was Maxime’s head on which, in child- 
hood, they had been apt to bestow their first benediction ; 
and it was Maxime’s hand which, in dawning manhood, they 
sought as their support whenever there was rough work to 
be done, or a rough step to be overpassed. 

Though strongly attached to the calling of his forefathers, 
Maxime’s adventurous spirit could not long rest contented 
with the monotonous life of a Dieppe fisherman. Having 
succeeded in persuading his father that his place as simple 
mariner of the Belle Gahrielle might be easily filled up, he 
obtained permission to embark on board a lu^er freighted 
for Havre, whence it was easy to work a passage to the 
West Indies, with a view of improving his maritime ex- 
perience, and seeing something of the world. From the 
West Indies, Maxime Crosnier proceeded to New York ; 
and previous to his return to his native town, he had obtain- 
ed such high testimonials for steadiness and good conduct, 
that two of the principal merchants of Dieppe, engaged in 
the north-western trade, contended to obtain his services at 
a higher rate of remuneration than had ever yet been offered 
on the quays of Dieppe. By the liberality of his father the 


OF THE POLLET. 


113 


same sum of money which had been advanced for the setting 
up in business of Jacques, was now bestowed upon him to 
invest in ventures presenting themselves in the course of his 
voyages ; and the young man took leave of his parents for 
the second time in exuberant spirits, arising at once from his 
own happy prospects and the prosperous position of his 
brother. 

For Maxime had successfully exerted his influence with 
his parents to obtain their sanction to the marriage of their 
elder son, whose ateliers as an ivoirier were established in 
the house adjoining their own in the Pollet; and though the 
young person to whom he had united himself was come of a 
family with which the Crosniers had been formerly at vari- 
ance, the persuasions of Max, and the prudent deportment 
of Madame Jacques, prevailed in inducing the old people to 
admit the newly-married couple as inmates under their roof. 
One of the chambers of the second floor was assigned to 
their use, leaving the other still sacred to the goods and 
chattels left behind by Maxime on embarking for his voyage, 
i The ivoirier repaired every morning to his workshop, slipping 
home for meals and an occasional chat with his demure 
bride ; and the old people hot only reconciled themselves to 
the addition to their household, but were cheered by the 
constant spectacle of happiness and affection. 

“Thou hast done thyself an ill turn, lad, by introducing 
to thy father’s hearthside two that are little inclined to ad- 
vance thy interests in life,” cried Bouzard to his nephew, 
when Max went to take leave of his friends previous to sail- 
ing. “ A word in thine ear, Max, my boy. Thou wilt 
repent having given thy shoes to wear in thine absence to 
that bone-clipping brother of thine.” 

“ Jacques hath a^ good a right as I to abide under my 
father’s roof,’’ replied Maxime ; “ nay, more — since he hath 
a wife to maintain, whil6 I (thank God) have at present no 
mistress save fine weather.” ^ 

“ Thou wilt have a master soon, if I have any skill to 
read the compass,” cried Bouzard. “Jacques is a smooth- 
spoken chap, able to palaver the eyes out of a man’s head ; 
as thou wouldst have known long ago to thy cost, but for 
the favour thou seemst to have brought with thee into the 
world thou wert born to. But smooth as he is, Max, he 
VOL. II. 11 * 


114 


THE MARINERS 


hath taken to himself a mate with fifty-fold his own cunning 
and make-believe. If Madame Jacques don’t get the length 
of my sister’s foot before the year’s out, my name is not Jean 
Bouzard ! Mark, I beseech thee, Max, how artfully this 
woman hath already rigged herself from top to toe after the 
strictest fashion of a Poltais, instead of the gay fly-caps and 
body-gear she wore as a maiden ; and not a work from her 
lips now , forsooth, that a soul t’other side the harbour is ! 
likely to understand ! ’Tis not natural, Max, in a Dieppoise 
to whistle her words Pollet fashion. As our song says, — 

‘ Moi, ze fais ma ronde 
En Poltais racourchi, 

Et tout au bout du compte 
Ze n’ai qu’un melan oult !’ 

But I’m plaguily mistaken if Madame Jacques don’t get 
more as her portion by pretending love for the Pollet than a 
stale whiting, or even her lawful half of thy father’s 
belongings.” 

“I’m not apt to judge harshly those who are loved by 
those I love,’’ cried Maxime. “ I warrant, uncle, you’ll 
have changed your mind about my sister-in-law by the time 
I’m home again i” 

It was Maxime, however, who was fated to change his 
mind. Scarcely had the Amphitrite sailed, when Madame 
Jacques, who, by dint of the most artful obsequiousness, was 
now high in favour with the narrow-minded old Madame 
Crosnier, began to insinuate that it was a lucky thing for 
Maxime he was forced by his profession from Dieppe, as 
another month’s sauntering among the bosquets of the Fau- 
bourg de la Barre would have placed him at the mercy of a 
certain Mademoiselle Louise, a coquette of indifferent repu- 
tation, the daughter of Swiss refugees, who, after a life of 
adventure in Paris, were fain to hide their heads and their 
poverty at Dieppe, probably with a view of escaping from 
their creditors by embarking for England. 

Madame Crosnier heard and trembled 1 It had been for 
many years her favourite project to unite her darling son 
with the only daughter of one of her commeres of the Pollet, 
her fellow-labourer of old with the shrimping-net and the 
chalut , and now her evening companion over a cup of cafe 


OF THE POLLET. 


115 


noii', or a glass of anisette. That Max should not only 
defeat her plan, hut think of introducing into an honest 
family of the Pollet some tripping foreign minx covered 
with ribbons and furbelows, caused a flush of indignation to 
overspread her bronzed cheeks. 

“ This, then, was the reason that the blockhead could 
never be persuaded to spend his Sundays at home with us l” 
cried Madame Crosnier; “ and no one to w r arn me of the 
danger that was hanging over the family ! Sapristie ! to 
think that 1 might have had a daughter-in-law pretending to 
sup my soup in a flounced petticoat, and, who knows — per- 
haps a silken bonnet cocked on the top of her empty head 1” 

I “ You would not have wished my husband to injure his 
brother by hinting what was going on ?” inquired Madame 
Jacques meekly. 

“ I would ; and even now I will have him acquaint his 
silly boy of a brother in the letter he has undertaken to write 
for us to Max in the course of the winter (for God knows 
Pierre Crosnier and I are better hands with the rudder and 
distaff than with pens and ink 1) that when he comes back 
to Dieppe, he must make up his mind either never again to 
set foot in the house of this foreign hussey, or never to re- 
enter his father’s. There’s choice left him, Madame Jac- 
I ques, and that’s enough.” 

This denunciation was duly transmitted to his brother by 
Jacques Crosnier, who undertook at the same time to exert 
his influence with his parents to procure a remission of the 
sentence previous to Maxime’s return. Yet so far was this 
engagement from being fulfilled, that neither the ivoirier nor 
bis wife omitted a single occasion to poison the ears of the 
old people with rumours and anecdotes, redounding to the 
discredit of Ma’amselle Louise. They even eventually ad- 
mitted their apprehension that — according to the common 
reports of the neighbourhood — Maxime was actually pledged 
to marry the foreigner, and had only been restrained from 
communicating his intentions to his family, by dread of pre- 
maturely provoking their opposition. 

“ He is only waiting,” quoth the demure Madame Jac- 
ques, “ till his ventures have prospered, ere he takes unto 
himself a wife of his own choosing.” 

“That shall be seen,” cried old Pierrette, in a fury. 


116 


THE MARINERS 


“Our lady be praised ! children have as yet no warrant in 
France for rebellion against their parents !” 

And having arrayed herself in her richest Sunday cap and 
amplest petticoat of scarlet kersey, she set off across the 
; pont des ecluses, and up the cours, towards the Faubourg de 
la Barre; where, having attained the modest habitation of 
the widowed mother of Louise, she poured forth her denun- 
ciations, — rendered almost inarticulate by the unusual effort 
of transporting her sixteen stone of solidity to the sunny 
slopes of La Barre. Had not the old lady’s eyes been 
somewhat dazzled by the glare, as well as her respiration ; 
impeded by the exercise, she would have noticed that the 
fair and humble girl, who, by her industry as sempstress, 
was supporting a venerable parent, was a far different being 
from the flaunting coquette described by her artful daughter- 
in-law. But after having called the saints to witness that 
neither she nor her husband would ever sanction the mar- 
riage contract of their son Max with any but a Poltais, 
Madame Crosnier rushed forth again on her way homewards, 
without pausing to examine the result of her invectives, or 
the aspect of the Dumont family. 

Overpowered by so strange an inbreak, the poor girl be- 
loved by Maxime had in fact fallen senseless to the ground. 
Louise was a patient, laborious, gentle creature, the very 
person to have conciliated the regard of his mother, had she 
viewed her with unprejudiced eyes. 

Madame Jacques’s report of the engagement of the young 
couple meanwhile was a true bill — having been communi- 
cated in confidence to her husband by his brother, who in- 
tended to choose an auspicious moment at some future time 
for breaking the matter to his parents. But now, all hope 
of a favourable termination to the business was at an end. 
Fhe Crosniers threatened their malediction in case of Maxi- 
me’s perseverance ; and the elder brother, satisfied that un- 
der such circumstances the high-spirited Max would neither 
complete nor relinquish his engagements with Louise, flat- 
tered himself that his junior must remain a bachelor to the 
end of his days, and that there would be no new rival to his 
influence in the Pollet. 

The vessel in which Maxime Crosnier had departed, was 
at length seen in the offing, waiting for the tide that was to 


OF THE POLLET. 


117 


enable her to enter the harbour. According to the custom 
of the place, a pilot-boat instantly put off to communicate to 
the Dieppois captain the events that had occurred in the 
town during his absence, which he alone was privileged to 
announce to his crew. For while the deepest anxiety pre- 
vails on board a French homeward-bound ship among hus- 
bands waiting to know the welfare of their families, and 
children dreading to learn the loss of their parents, the men 
are summoned one by one to the cabin, and informed by 
their captain of the good or ill news awaiting them on 
landing. 

As it happened, however, to be Jean Bouzard who, on 
the present occasion, hailed the Amphitrite, the captain 
consented to allow him the favour of a personal interview 
with his nephew, her second mate ; and in a moment, Maxi- 
me Crosnier was in the arms of his uncle. 

“ All’s over for thee, lad ; — ” cried the mariner, after 
having satisfied the young man of the health of his family ; 
“ that which I predicted hath come to pass. A serpent hath 
knotted herself round thy mother’s heart ; and thou must 
prepare to give up all intercourse with thy bonne arnie, 
Louise Dumont, or re-enter thy father’s house no more — 
et voila ! 

Maxime’s heart, which was still beating with the delight 
of being again pressed to the bosom of his kind good uncle, 
sank like lead at this afflicting announcement. Further ex- 
planations did but aggravate his despair. “ Thy foolish 
mother charged me to be the bearer of these evil tidings,” 
said Bouzard. “ Now, thou art warned of the worst. Ask 
me for no counsel ; — for, on the soul of an honest seaman, 
Max, l know not how to advise thee, since I cannot guess 
how far thou art committed with the girl. But unless thou 
art minded to give her up, hazard no meeting at present 
with thy father and mother; for there is no saying to what 
extremities their vexation may urge them.” 

This declaration was soon painfully attested. Amid the 
hundreds who thronged the jetty to catch the first sight of 
the long absent ones, as the good ship the Amphitrite was 
towed into the harbour, no one came to welcome Maxime 
Crosnier. Louise and her mother were weeping silently at 
home. They dared not make their appearance on the quay, 
VOL. II. 11 * 


118 


THE MARINERS 


lest they should seem to confront the wrath of his parents ; 
while Madame Crosnier and her spouse were watching 
anxiously, yet sullenly, from their window in the Pollet, 
waiting the event of their negotiation with their son. 

The result was, that Maxime made no attempt to re-enter 
his father’s abode. A tear sprang into his eye as he steered 
past the 1 Belle Gabrielle in the harbour, and inferred, from 
the manner in which the good old craft lay neglected, that 
his father had no longer heart to superintend his property. 
But he slept that night under the roof of his uncle Bouzard, 
after spending an evening of intermingled joy and affliction 
with his affianced wife ; and having learned in detail to 
what excess his parents were carrying their exasperation, 
entreated his uncle to acquaint them on the morrow with his 
determination to wait the influence of time upon their 
prejudices, but his fixed resolve to wed with no other wife 
than the excellent Louise Dumont. 

Madame Crosnier meanwhile, who, in spite of all, was 
burning with impatience to clasp her'rebellious but darling 
son in her arms, would have been unable to persist in her 
obduracy, had not her insidious daughter-in-law laboured to 
convince her that the eyes of the Pollet were fixed upon her 
proceedings, expecting an example from her firmness. 
Madame Jacques had already succeeded in obtaining an ex- 
press interdiction, on pain of paternal malediction, of all 
intercourse between Jacques and his brother; and now 
filled up every spare moment with reports of disrespectful 
language uttered by Maxime against his parents ; and in- 
sinuations that, in the filial duty of her own little boy, the 
grandfather and grandmother would find consolation for the 
contumacy of their ungrateful son. 

It is astonishing, when once a family feud is established, 
what pains are taken by neighbours, not otherwise ill-mean- 
ing, to widen the breach ! A few of the relations of the 
designing Madame Jacques — a few of the disappointed rivals 
of Maxime — a few of those who found it convenient to 
court the rising sun of the ivoirier and his wife, — and not a 
few who, for want of better employment, amused themselves 
with stirring up the wrath of old Pierrette, — contrived so 
bitterly to aggravate, in the course of the next six weeks, 
the ill-will of the parties, that Maxime, who had determined, 


OF THE POLLET. 


119 


previous to his return, to spend the winter at home, in order, 
i{ his parents consent could he obtained, to solemnize his 
marriage with a wife whom the success of his ventures al- 
ready afforded him the means of maintaining, now acceded 
to the proposals ot the owner of the Amphitrite , and ac- 
cepted the command of one of the fine vessels which were 
about to sail for the codfishery on the coast of Newfound- 
land. 

It was noticed that, on the, week preceding the sailing of 
the little fleet, Maxime, as well as Madame Dumont and 
her daughter, were missing four days from Dieppe. Some 
said they were gone to Rouen on an excursion of pleasure ; 
some said to Havre ; and one or two, recollecting that 
Louise and her mother were of Swiss origin, whispered that 
perhaps Maxime Crosnier had suffered himself to be con- 
verted to the Reform church ; and that the young people 
were gone to get furtively married according to the rites of 
the Lutheran church, of which, in many cities of Normandy, 
there exists congregations. 

It was fortunate for Maxime that he was already out of 
port before this rumor reached the ears of his parents or even 
of his uncle Bouzard, who was a bigoted and superstitious 
Papist. But before Madame Jacques found occasion to repeat 
the tale, Maxime was gone, and the Dumonts gone also. 
The mother and daughter having sold off their scanty fur- 
niture, had retired to the village of Arques, probably to be 
beyond the reach of the animosity of the Crosnier family, 
and to subsist upon the funds left with them by Maxime. 

It is not to be supposed that Jacques Crosnier (though 
his jealousy of his brother was stimulated a thousand fold by 
the unconcealed misery of his parents at losing sight of their 
favorite son) could consent without scruple to all the mal- 
practices of his wife. It was only by pleading hypocriti- 
cally the cause of the two infants of whom she was now 
the mother, and representing that, should Maxime once re- 
obtain a footing in his father’s house, he would inevitably 
retaliate upon them and procure their expulsion, — that Mad- 
ame Jacques obtained his co-operation. They had gone 
too far to recede ; and he silenced his conscience by re- 
minding himself that all stratagems were lawful to secure 
his brother’s salvation, by preventing his marriage with a 


120 


THE MARINERS 


Protestant. Still, when at the close of the five months.) 
which usually formed the limit of the absence of the New- 
foundland fleet, Bouzard took his station every morning, 
glass in hand., upon the jetty, and announced that the Ter-\ 
re-Neuviers were not yet in sight, the heart of the elder 
brother began to wax heavy. 

Six months passed away — the seventh was advancing — 
and still no tidings. On the Exchange of Dieppe not a 
broker could be found to listen to the proposals of the own- 
ers. Bouzard was to be seen from sunrise to nightfall, watching 
upon the falaise ; and old Crosnier and his wife spent their 
lives on their knees at the foot of the Calvary erected on 
the jetty. Already they had vowed an offering of a full-rigged 
frigate in ivory to the shrine of Notre Dame des Greves in the 
event of Maxirne’s return ; and would have rushed to clasp the 
truant in their arms, even had he presented himself holding 
the hand of a Protestant wife. But it was fated that Max- 
ime should come no more. In the eighth month, a letter 
from Prince Edward’s Island apprized the associated owners 
of the Newfoundland fleet, that, having been dispersed by 
a frightful storm, four of the vessels had reassembled in the 
most distressed condition, and with great difficulty made for 
the nearest port to refit ; the Pearl , the fifth vessel, having 
foundered at sea. Of the Pearl, the fated fifth, had Max- 
ime Crosnier the command ! — The vessel had been seen for 
the last time at nightfall, on the 30th of December, battling 
with the rising tempest, and Maxime was then on the deck, 
encouraging the men, and exerting unexampled energies in 
working his dismasted ship. On the arrival of the Terre - 
Neuviers in the harbor, amid the acclamations of multitudes 
who had dreaded never to behold their entrance into the 
port of Dieppe, it was a sad thing to see the widows and 
orphans of those who were lost in the Pearl crowding to 
interrogate their surviving comrades, and obtaining from 
all the same answer, that the poor Pearl could not have 
lived half an hour in such a sea as that of the 30th of De- 
cember, after she was last seen by her convoy. 

No one however, appeared to make further inquiries after 
Max. Old Crosnier was on his death-bed, and his family 
in anxious attendance upon his last moments ; and it was 
noticed that though the tidings of the loss of his son had 


OF THE POLLET. 


121 


, broken the heart of the old man, yet so obstinately did he 

• cling to the hope of Maxirne’s survival, to reappear at some 
future moment, that no persuasions of the notary employed 

■ by the ivoirier and his wife could induce him to frame his 
r last will and testament, otherwise than by bequeathing his 
whole property to his wife lor her lifetime, with a request 

• that she would divide it by will between his representatives, 
i It was conjectured by the disappointed Jacques that his 

uncle Bouzard had some share in suggesting this absurd 
; disposition ; and vexation was gnawing at his heart when, 
with outward signs of grief, he followed his father to the 
grave, and remembered that, for her life, his mother must 
retain her authority. 

Nevertheless, so thoroughly was Madame Crosnier’s spir- 
it broken by the loss of her husband and son, that it was 
j easy for the ivoirier's wife to obtain sole ascendancy in the 
house in the Pollet. Half the old woman’s time was spent 
j in that long-closed chamber of the second floor, which still 
contained a few personal tokens of her beloved Max — for- 
’ eign shells and feathers, and Indian implements and toys, 

I which the poor old mariner had chosen to have laid upon 
his death-bed, that he might stretch his wasted hand over 
something that had once belonged to his boy. Amid these 
treasures, and opposite to a rough canoe of birch-bark, the 
handiwork of the shipwrecked man, would the venerable 
Pierrette sit for hours, wandering back into the past, revil- 
ing her own hardness of heart towards her Maxime, and 
grieving that not one of the tame-hearted, cunning children 
of her son Jacques should, in the slightest degree, recall to 
mind the brave, rebellious, curly-headed varlet who, twenty 
years before, used to tag after her along the shore of the 
Pollet, watching for the return of the Belle Gabrielle. The 
Belle Gabrielle was sold to a stranger; and the little curly- 
headed lad a senseless corse beneath the howling waves of 
the Atlantic ! No wonder that the afflicted mother should 
weep and bemoan herself. No wonder that Madame Jac- 
ques impatient of her continued control in the house, should 
reproach her with indifference towards her more deserving 
and still surviving son. 

j j Weary of these constantly recurring remonstrances, and 

anxious to conceal her tears, Madame CroSnier was apt 


122 


THE MARINERS 


to wander out from the Pollet on summer evenings ; some- 
times along the cliffs, as if she still expected that a future fleet 
of Terre-Neuviers might include the long-lost Pearl , but 
oftener, along the green valley of the Scie and the Saane. 
On one occasion, about four years after the loss of her hus- 
band, the poor old soul, no longer comely, no longer op- 
pressed with embonpoint , was taking her sad and solitary 
way through the silence of a dreary September evening up 
the ascent leading to the cemetery of the Pollet, without 
noticing that, before her on the road, toiled a poor woman 
heavily charged with one of the wicker hods of the country, 
who now and then turned round to look after a little fellow 
as raggedly accoutred as herself. At length, a few paces 
in advance of Madame Crosnier, she paused to call the boy, 
who was seeking berries in the hedge ; and the name by 
which she addressed her child went, straight to the heart of 
the sorrowing mother. — It was Max ! — 

“How art thou called, little one?” inquired Madame 
Crosnier, taking the hand of the boy, when, tardily obeying 
the call, he at length followed his mottier, who was proceed- 
ing at some distance along the road. 

“ My name is Maxime Crosnier — but I am only called 
M ax. Now let me go for I am tired and hungry ; and 
mother has promised that if I step out, perhaps she will give 
me a bit of bread for supper.” 

“ And where is thy mother ?” — persisted the agitated 
Pierrette. 

“ She is yonder there, at the top of the hill.” 

“Thou hast a father, perhaps?” — persisted the old lady, 
in a faltering voice. 

“ Yes.” 

“And where is thy father?” 

“ Far away, under the sea. My poor father was lost by 
shipwreck ; and granny is dead, and though mother works 
very, very hard, it is not always we can get food.” 

Madame Crosnier sat down on the bank by the way-side, 
without relinquishing the hand of the child, who stood won- 
dering by her side. 

« What was thy grandmother’s name?” — she continued, 
in a scarcely audible whisper, dreading that the reply might 
crush the delightful hopes already dawning in her heart ; 


OF THE POLLET. 


123 


and when poor little Max breathed in her ear the name of 
11 Dumont, the sobs with which she threw her arms around 
him, and then, placing him at arm’s length, considered and 
reconsidered his handsome, intelligent little face, so terrified 
the boy, that he soon mingled his tears with those of his 
unknown relative. u Thou art his — thou art mine — thou 
shalt remain with me !” cried the poor old soul, — who, at 
tho moment, felt as if one restored from the dead were 
folded in her arms ; and while the boy struggled to extricate 
himself from her embraces, his mother, having returned 
along the road to seek her lost treasure, stood beside them in 
utter amazement. The explanation that ensued was heart- 
rending. The wasted cheek and callous hands of poor 
Louise attested the tale of her sufferings, her wants, her 
labors, for the sake of Maxime’s son. After the death of 
her mother, she had made known to Jacques Crosnier her 
situation, and the lawfulness of her wedlock with his broth- 
er ; yet, at the instigation of his partner, the churl had not 
only refused her relief, but prevented her tale from reaching 
the ear of his mother. The widow of Max had been led 
to believe that, if she presented herself before the family of 
Maxime, both she and her idolized boy would be exposed 
to injury and insult. Sheltering herself, in the obscure vil- 
lage where her mother had breathed her last, she devoted 
herself submissively to the severest daily labor. Her com- 
fort was in her child. It was sufficient for her consolation to 
breathe the name of “ Max,” and to find it answered by 
the sweet voice and fair looks of one who had the living 
portrait of the lover of her youth. 

In the dusk of that eventful evening, the two sorrowing 
women returned together to the Pollet ; and from that night 
scarcely lived one hour apart, till the sister of Bouzard was 
laid in the grave. Together they wept over him they had 
lost — -together related to the young child the prowess and 
feats of his father. Old Pierrette felt that she could not 
lavish sufficient love and affection upon this recovered 
treasure, — this morsel of his favorite son, — this image of her 
darling Max ; and old Bouzard was scarcely less delighted to 
perceive that the boy was likely to become a worthy repre- 
sentative of his favorite nephew. From the startling mo- 
ment of Madame Max’s appearance in the Pollet, under the 


THE MARINERS 


124 



protection of her mother-in-law, Jacques and his wife, as if 
hoping by submission to disarm inquiry and silence invec- 
tive, gradually withdrew from the place, and established a 
household of their own ; more especially on perceiving that 
Madame Crosnier, instead of shuddering at the heresies of 
her daughter-in-law, exerted herself with success to estab- 
lish the legality of Louise’s marriage, in order to bestow 
upon her grandson his lawful share of the property of his 
forefathers. 

The two oaken presses of the mansion of the Pollet are 
accordingly now disunited, and the twelve silver converts 
have diminished to six ; for Pierrette, great as was to the 
last her adoration of the Max of her own Max, was strictly 
just in her division of her belongings between her two grand- 
sons. According to the desire of the widow Jacques, her 
eldest son received in money, from bis grandmother, an 
equivalent for the family dwelling, and is now a flourishing 
tailor in the town of Dieppe. But the jolly mariner, who 
may be seen to this very hour upon the quays, in affection- 
ate discourse with his cousin, the Bouzard of the present 
day, and who inhabits, with a pretty, merry, little wife, and 
a grave but happy old .mother, a house in the Grande Rue 
of the Pollet (the windows of which are bright with gerani- 
ums, and seem to be alive with linnets and canaries,) is no 
other than Maxime Crosnier ! 

His children still delight in showing to strangers the shells 
and curiosities gathered in foreign parts by their shipwrecked 
grandfather; and the family may be visited and regarded by 
travellers as and advantageous specimen of the Mariners of 
the Pollet. 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


I / 

The Chateau d’Armentieres is one of the few country 
houses in France which can pretend to rivalship with 
the rural residences of Great Britain. The finest 
of our English parks is but a favored “ bit” of nature ; 
an enwalled or enfenced portion of landscape, trained by the 
hand of art to resemble the more picturesque districts of the 
island. In France, on the contrary, the pleasure grounds 
of a country seat are not only artifical, but aim at distin- 
guishing themselves from the common-place of nature. — 
The lily must be painted — the violet perfumed. Plants are 
marshalled as in the ranks of a regiment ; — forest trees trim- 
med and trained as for the bandbox of an artificial florist. 
The garden contains as much marble or granite, as shrubs or 
soil. Ballustrades of stone replace the fragrant fence of 
sweetbriar ; and the stately vase, upon its pedestal, usurps 
in the shrubbery the place of the gum-cistus or rhododendron. 
The French, regarding this ornate artificiality as an evidence 
of cost and care, will not believe that English people allow 
the lime-trees on their lawns to extend untrimmed their 
luxuriant branches, from any other motive than an economy 
of labor. 

At Armentieres things are no better ordered than else- 
where. — The mansion is surrounded by the usual intersec- 
• tions of rectangular sanded walks, and box-edged parterres ; 
a terrace overlooking a muddy canal ; a few stone basins 
VOL. II. — 12 


126 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


full of grass-green Tritons and Nereids, each capable of 
throwing up a fountain, were the leaden pipes less full of 
chinks, or the stagnant water in which they are dabbling 
less full of tadpoles ; a grove of chesnut trees, whose tall, 
straight stems stand formally arranged, like the pipes of 
an organ ; and a wilderness of weeds and cinque-foil beyond, 
which passes under the honorary denomination of park. 
Such are the features of Armentieres. Yet, on the whole, 
it is a beautiful residence ; for the pleasure grounds are for- 
tunately small, and nature has done wonders for the envi- 
rons of a place where art exhibits only those fantastic tricks 
which, instead of playing before high Heaven, she would 
do well to restrict to the decoration of an opera house. Be- 
low the limits of the hard, stiff gardens, lies a deep and 
richly wooded ravine, with a brook leaping along the bot- 
tom ; and beyond the opposite bank extends a healthy for- 
est, intersected with hoary masses of rock ; — one portion 
thickly grown with the noblest timber, another partially 
cleared, and rendered picturesque by its patches of silver 
birch trees. Spanish chesnuts, and straggling juniper. Sit- 
uated on the confines of the estates of the house of Bourbon- 
Conde, you may ride ten miles from Armentieres to the 
Palace of Chantilly, through a succession of forest scenery 
worthy some Tuscan romance, or the pages of Hobbima. 

Leon d’Armentieres, who, at the epoch of the restoration 
of the Bourbons to the throne of France, occupied the Cha- 
teau and its dependencies, was a fine, open-spirited young 
man of four-and-twenty, born amid the terrors of the revolu- 
tion, and apparently foredoomed to suffer the penalty of 
noble birth by a life of penury and privation. But on the 
accession of Napoleon, a grateful recollection on the part 
of the new Emperor of some trifling service rendered him in 
his earlier days by the Baron d’Armentieres, produced an 
unexpected change in the fortunes of the family. They 
were sought out in their obscure retreat, and loaded with 
the favors of government. The Baron soon obtained means 
of redeeming his confiscated estates, and nothing but his 
untimely death on the field of Austerlitz, prevented him 
from rising to the highest honors of the state. Within a few 
months of the fatal event the Baroness fell a victim to 
affliction, bequeathing their only son to the guardianship of 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


m 


the Emperor. Leon d’Armentieres — enrolled among the 
pages of the Imperial household, mechanically adopted the 
views, sentiments, and principles, with which gratitude had 
i inspired his parents. Many of the most illustrious houses 
in France — Montesquieus Narbonnes, Breteuils were al- 
ready, indeed, in service at the Tuileries ; and, but that 
Leon had flattered himself that he should be honored, on 
attaining the fitting age, with a military appointment, he 
might have congratulated himself on his good fortune, when, 
on entering his eighteenth year, the Emperor selected him 
as equerry to the newly-born King of Rome. 

It was rumoured in the Imperial circle, that the Baron- 
ess d’Armentieres, whose early death was produced by the 
loss of her husband on the field of battle, had personally 
implored the Emperor to spare her only son from the fatal 
ranks of his army. But Leon himself cherished an embit- 
tering suspicion that the great soldier did not judge him wor- 
thy to serve under his banners ; and a disgust against the 
| splendid servitude in which he was enlisted, took possession 
of his bosom. 

For some years past, indeed, the chief pleasure of Leon’s 
life had consisted in such visits to the Chateau d’Armentie- 
res as his duties at the Tuileries would permit, — the Chateau 
where he was born, and which he had inhabited for several 
years of his existence. To him every tree of the domain was 
familiar, every hill a friendly object. The verdure of Fon- 
tainebleau or Compiegne never appeared, in his eyes, to 
rival that of his own fine woods. Nowhere was the climate 
so wholesome — nowhere the field sports so exhilarating. 
There he was an object of universal interest ; the very 
woodcutters could date the day and the hour of his birth 1 — 
nay ! the blind beggar, stationed by the villagers to warm 
himself in the sunshine safe within the gates of the avenue, 
appeared to have an instinctive knowledge that his ap- 
proaching footstep was that of the young Baron d’Armen- 
tieres. 

The place had been but roughly kept up during Leon’s 
minority. The shutters of the grand suite of apartments re- 
mained closed, except when, once a year or so, it became 
necessary to remove the mildew from the pictures and tap- 
estry, and ascertain how far moth and rust had corrupted 


128 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


during the preceeding twelvemonth. The avenue and court 
of honor were obstructed by trunks of trees lying seasoning 
in the sun, preparatory to being chopped up for firewood ; 
and, as to the gardens, they were almost as luxuriant and 
beautiful as if there existed neither a gardener nor a pruning- 
hook in France. But all this disorder afforded an agreeable 
change to Leon after the precise precincts of the court ; and 
he loved the very weeds of the flower-borders, because they 
seemed to flourish of their own accord. 

“ Were I my own master/’ cried Leon, every time he 
passed the gate of the Chateau on his way back to his offi- 
cial duties, “ I would never quit Armentieres.” 

“ You fancy so, because ’tis almost the only thing you 
are not at liberty to do,” observed his bosom friend, Count 
Phillip de Breteuil, one day, when on his return from a sport- 
ing September week of holidays, Leon indulged in his usual 
declaration. 

“ Partiality to one’s birth-place, methinks, is no very un- 
common failing,” said he, moderating his indignation, as he 
leaned back in the embrasure of a window in an ante-cham- 
ber of the palace at St. Cloud, where Breteuil and himself 
were officiating in the duties of their appointments. 

“ Granted ! for what is it but one of the thousand-and-one 
modifications of human self-sufficiency ?” 

“ Well, then — egotism apart — surely there is nothing ob- 
jectionable in preferring, for my residence, one of the most 
beautiful spots in the kingdom ?” 

“ Fontainebleau is one of the most beautiful spots in the 
kingdom,” replied Breteuil, with provoking calmness ; 
“ yet you were as much bored there last week, as if you 
had been camping with some roving tribe in Stony Arabia. 5 ’ 

“ With or without a sufficient reason, then, give rne leave 
to assert that I love the home of my fathers beyond all 
other places under the canopy of Heaven.” 

“ You love the home of your father’s son, I fancy,” re- 
plied Breteuil, playing with his sword knot. “You find your- 
self a little king in your little chateau. We all like to sove- 
reignize when and where we are able.” 

“ To prove how completely you mistake my motives, 
know that my present partiality for Armentieres is trifling, 
compared with the love I bore the place on quitting if, at 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


129 


ten years old ; when 1 arid Margaret used to wander through 
the woods in springtime, making garlands of wild anemones 
and lilies of the valley.” 

“ And who is Margaret ? — Your sister ? M 

<c I am an only child. Margaret was a little girl nursed 
and reared by the porter’s wife.” 

U A pretty playmate, truly, for the young Chatlain ! What 
might be her name ?” 

“ The young Chatelain never inquired. She was 
always 4 Margaret to me, unless, indeed, when I called her 
my little wife.” 

“ And what do you call her now ! ” 

u I have heard nothing of her these ten years past. 
Ma rgaret was taken home from her foster-mother about 
the period I entered the Tuileries ; and, by this, she is 
probably the portly wife of some grocer of the Rue St. 
Denis.” ^ 

“ I wonder you never sought her out, that for once, you 
might insure becoming sympathy in your passion for the old 
oak trees of Armentieres 1” said Breteuil, with a sneer. “But 
apropos to love and matrimony, I have news for you ! 
Whom, think you, is going to be noosed in the silken 
chain ?” 

“ If I am to guess the least likely man in Paris, allow me 
to name yourself!” 

“ Right ! — for once you have hit the mark.” 

“ IIow !” cried Leon, who had intended a mere pleas- 
antry ; “ you , my dear Count, are really going to be mar- 

ried ?” 

“ So the Emperor informs me, and he is apt to be correct 
on such points.” 

“ And to whom ?” 

“ To a Mademoiselle Gallien, or Galiand, or some such 
person.” 

“ The proposition, then, did not spring from yourself — 
the lady is not of your own selection ?” 

“ No ! — I asked the Emperor for the means of paying my 
debts ; and he was not only so liberal as to afford them, but 
to throw me a wife into the bargain. He bestows upon me 
the only child of a recev cur -general, and aid-de-campship. 
The marriage contract is to be signed to-night ; to-morrow 
vol. ii. — 12* 


130 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


the marriage will be solemnized at St. Roch ; and, if the 
Emperor deigns to listen to my next request as graciously as 
to the last, I shall set off on the following day, to accom- 
pany him to Russia.” 

“ Mademoiselle Gallien or Galiand is much indebted to 
your gallantry,” said Leon. “ But don’t you invite me to 
your wedding ?” 

The Emperor further informs me you are to be my 
bridesman. So be ready to accompany me, at seven this 
evening, to the Rue de Grenelle, when 1 am to be presented 
to my bride ; in order to present her with a few thousand 
livres’ worth of diamonds, as marriage gifts, at the expense 
of their Imperial Majesties.” 

Even trained as Leon had been in the heartlessness of a 
court, there was something in the cool insensibility of Bre- 
teuil that excited his disgust. He attired himself for the 
ceremonial of the evening with an involuntary feeling of 
compassion towards the unfortunate girl about to be sacri- 
ficed in order to repair the disorders of a libertine ; and 
turned a deaf ear to the piquant sallies of the bridegroom, as 
they ascended the grand staircase of a fine hotel in the Fau- 
bourg St. Germain. The names of “ Messieurs the Count 
Philippe de Breteuil and the Baron Leon d’Armentieres,” 
were loudly announced by a succession of domestics ; and 
Monsieur :i Gallien or Galiand,” with whom Breteuil had 
already had repeated interviews at the house of his man of 
business, advanced to the very door of the ante-chamber to 
Welcome his noble son-in-law. Leon cast a mistrustful 
glance upon the countenance of the old financier, who, it 
was clear had made a mere bargain of his daughter ; for 
Galiand was to become Monsieur le Baron when his child 
became Madame la Comtesse. The rich upstart was to be 
ennobled — the impoverished peer enriched ; all which form- 
ed part of Napoleon’s favourite system of “ fusion.” 

“ It is to be hoped, for Breteuil’s sake, that the young 
lady may possess a more prepossessing face than her father,” 
thought Leon, as they followed the pompous guidance of 
his host through a suite of sumptuous chambers ; in the 
furthest of which, stood a writing table surrounded by law- 
yers, and a lovely young woman, attired in bridal white, 
surrounded by a posse of female relatives. Nothing more 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


131 


noble or more graceful than the air with which she returned 
the salutations, and accepted the bouquet almost contempt- 
uously offered to her by Breteuil ; and even the latter was 
struck by the beauty of her person, and quiet dignity of her 
demeanour. At her father’s suggestion, the contents of the 
marriage articles were now hastily run over by the notary ; 
and, with the exception of a start from Leon on hearing the 
name of the bride recited as “ Marie Marguerite Galiand,” 
no one gave evidence of having listened to a syllable. The 
ladies present were occupied in admiring the rich lace of 
which Mary Margaret’s dress was composed ; and the men, 
the dauntless audacity with which the aristocratic bridegroom 
supported the ignominious publicity of his pauperism. 

The notary bowed his head at the conclusion of the last 
page, in token that his task was over ; on which the Count 
offered his hand to the lady (through whom he found him- 
self endowed with half a million lawful monies of the realm,) 
to lead her to the table whereon the parchments were ex- 
tended. The pen was placed in her hand ; and while, 
below the hurried signature it served to trace, all the illus- 
trious personages present were inscribing their names as wit- 
nesses of the covenant, Breteuil took the opportunity to 
present, to the notice of Mademoiselle, his friend and brides- 
man, the Baron Leon d’Armentieres. The young Baron 
advanced, at the summons of Breteuil, to offer the custom- 
ary compliments. But, as their eyes met, the ejaculation 
of “ Margaret” on one side, and “ Leon” on the other, cut 
short all form of speech ; and it was with some difficulty 
that the Count gleaned, from their hurried explanations, 
that he was about to lead to the altar the little wife of his 
young friend. Yes ! the future Madame la Comtesse 
Philippe de Breteuil had actually been ushered into life as 
the nursling of the Porter’s wife of the Chateau d’Armen- 
tieres ! 

Old Galiand was, in fact, one of those mysterious no- 
bodies whose fortune became magnified with such incredible 
rapidity in the commissariat department of the army in 
Spain. His means had been as humble as his origin, even 
so lately as the period when the death of his young wife, in 
childbed, left a motherless girl upon his hands. Yet scarcely 
had Margaret attained her tenth year, when his enormous 


132 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


wealth made it incumbent on him to remove his future heir- 
ess from her obscure retreat, to be trained into hnished 
courtliness by the experienced hands of Madame Campan. 
The rumour of her prospects and merits now reached the 
ear of the Emperor ; and determined him to render her 
hand a prize for one of his indigent adherents. That the 
delicacy of Mademoiselle Galiand could be wounded by this 
summary mode of disposing of her destinies, never entered 
into his high and mighty calculations ! — 

“ And thus, my dear Leon, the fates have been playing 
at cross-purposes with our fortunes/’ observed Breteuil to 
his young friend, as they retired together, at an early hour 
that night, in order to be in readiness for the solemnity of 
the morrow. “ ’Tis a pity but 1 had earlier discovered 
your pre-engagement with my betrothed ; for it is probable 
that the Emperor might have patched up your affairs with 
her dowry as readily as mine ; while, to myself, it would of 
course have been a matter of indifference to be indebted for 
the indemnization of my creditors to some other grocer’s 
daughter or chandler’s widow.” 

“ Margaret is neither the daughter of a grocer nor the 
widow of a chandler, that I am aware of,” replied Leon, in 
a tone at least as bitter as the irony of his companion ; 
“ and my affairs, thank Heaven, stand in no need of patch- 
ing. The Chateau d’Armentieres ” 

“ The Chateau d’Armentieres! Still and always the 
Chateau d’Armentieres !” sneered Breteuil, who had been 
irritated not a little by discovering, in the course of the 
evening, that Mademoiselle Galiand, so far from being 
touched by his lofty homage, was wholly engrossed by the 
renewal of her acquaintance with his young bridesman. 
“ Surely we have heard enough of the Chateau d’Arrnen- 
tieres to-night, to last us for some time to come. Margaret 
and yourself seem to yearn grievously after the porter’s 
lodge, in which she received her education ! — 

‘ A tous les cceurs bien nes, que la patrie est cliere.’ ” 

Leon forbore to reply. He was ruminating whether it 
might not still be possible to rescue his dear little Margaret 
from the arms of the callous libertine by whom she w 7 as 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


133 


predestined to contempt and neglect. But his cogitations 
proved infructuous. On the following morning, the Arch- 
bishop of Paris united the unloving couple. On the follow- 
ing night, the Count and Countess de Breteuil took pos- 
session of the apartments allotted them in the Palace of the 
I Tuileries. And, on the following month, the bride became 
once more the inmate of her father’s beautiful villa in the 
valley of Montmorency ; — Count Philippe de Breteuil, aid- 
de-camp to his Imperial Majesty, having taken his depart- 
ure for the grand army. 

During the intervening period, d’Armentieres had found 
no occasion for the renewal of his intimacy with Madame 
de Breteuil. The whole court rang with praises of her 
beauty, and admiration of the dignity of her demeanour ; yet 
the Count omitted no opportunity of observing to Leon, 
whenever chance threw them into a tete-a-tete — “ l cannot 
forgive you, my dear Baron, for having neglected to inspire 
poor Margaret with some insight into men and things, as 
they exist in the every-day world, instead of losing your time 

I pulling posies in the woods of Armentieres. It is your fault, 
rather than mine, that my wife makes her first appearance at 
court with the air and manners of a kitchen-maid. Thank 
heaven, she has consented to pass the time of my absence in 
retirement with her father and his low associates. To me , 
it would be worse than death from the lance of a Don Cos- 
sack, to know that the creature was disgracing me by ex- 
posing her gaucheries to all the parvenue Duchesses of 
Bonaparte’s mushroom circle !” — 

Leon was not sufficiently a man of the world to reply, as 
Breteuil had expected, to this attack upon his wife; and 
when the Emperor and his suite quitted Paris, the young 
man judged it better to dismiss from his mind the unsatisfac- 
tory renewal of his acquaintance with the “ Margaret” .of 

I bis early years. 

There was one spot, however, in which Margaret was not 
to be forgotten. The first visit paid by the Baron to the 
home of his infancy insensibly reconjured before him the 
image of his little playfellow, contrasted with that of the 
beautiful woman, radiant with jewels and brocade, whom he 
had seen presented at court as the Countess de Breteuil. 
“ I loved her best in her little stuff frock and cotton apron,” 


134 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 

fc 

thought he, many months after her marriage, as he pursued 
his way along the ravine by the side of the brook where 
they had been accustomed to gather and crown each other 
with water-flowers and rushes. “ But no one can dispute 
the loveliness of Madame de Breteuil.” 

It did not surprise him to learn from Guillot, the porter, 
that, in the course of the summer, a beautiful lady, from the 
valley of Montmorency, had visited Armentieres ; passing 
the day in wandering through the environs, and conferring 
happiness on the inhabitants of the whole district, by the 
extent of her benefactions. 

“ You should have seen her sitting with my old woman 
up at the lodge, Monsieur le Baron 1” said old Guillot — 
“ arranging in our press the stock of linen with which she 
came provided ; and looking over our stock of furniture to 
discover of what we stood in need ; and sure enough, a few 
days afterwards, Pierre the waggoner left at our door, for 
our use, a bed and buffet, such as would do honour to any 
room in the Chateau d’Armentieres !” 

“ And did you not manage to learn the name of your 
strange benefactress ?” inquired Leon. 

“Th q title — not the name,” answered Guillot. “I 
found out that the beautiful lady was a countess, whose 
husband is absent with the army ; which is no doubt the 
cause of her unhappiness, poor young creature 1 For the 
tears stood in her eyes all the time she sat talking to my old 
woman ; and more than once, they rolled down her cheeks, 
and I thought she was going to speak freely, and give loose 
to her feelings. But the old gentleman who accompanied 
her (her father, 1 believe — in spite of his age and infirmities, 
so cold, and so stiff, and so proud of the ribbon at his 
button-hole !) bad her recollect herself, or recollect her 
promise, or something of the sort. And then she dried up 
her tears, and began to talk of you , sir ; not as most visitors 
here talk of you — to inquire how many horses you have in 
your stable, or how many wild boars you sent home last 
hunting season ; but whether you were a kind master to 
your people, and a good landlord to the poor.” 

“ You gave me a tolerable character, I trust, to so pretty 
a lady ?” inquired Leon, trying to smile. 

“ 1 rather think not, sir. The moment your name was 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 135 

mentioned, my old woman, as usual, began to sob and 
whimper ; and to talk over the days when you lived at the 
Chateau with your tutor, and little Margaret was at nurse 
with us, and you used to play together. And when my 
old woman gets upon the chapter of Margaret, as your Ex- 
cellency is well aware, she never knows where to stop ; and 
up came all the old tales, story by story, of how you 
were lost together in ” 

“ And what said the Countess ?” demanded Leon, to spare 
himself the well-known tale. 

“ Oh ! the Countess had nothing better to do than to sit 
and cry for company. She even took the poor withered 
hand of my old dame between her two fair hands, and car- 
ried it to her heart and her lips, as if to comfort her. And, 
seeing that, sir, the old Baron bad her not make a fool of 
herself; and went and ordered round the carriage to the 
gate, and got her off and away.” 

“ And pray, my good Guillot, what became of that 
said little Margaret, the nurse-child, whom you and * your 
wife remember with so much affection ?” — inquired d’Ar- 
rnentieres. 

“ She died young, sir. When we sent to ask news of the 
girl of her aunt (the rich mercer’s wife who placed her 
here,) soon after she was removed from our care, we were 
informed that it was all over with poor Margaret. I should 
not wonder but her death was caused, poor child, by fret- 
ting after us and you, Monsieur le Baron. For Margaret 
loved you dearly, sir. Margaret would start up from her 
play, if she caught a glimpse of you at half a leagues dis- 
tance, yonder across the brook, and off, like a fawn, to try 
to catch you. Oftentimes she has gone without her dinner, 
watching for you down by the riverside, when she expected 
you home from fishing. Yes, Monsieur Leon, Margaret 
loved you very, very dearly.” 

« And did this beautiful lady from Montmorency make 
no promise of returning?” inquired the Baron, unwilling 
that Guillot should perceive how much he was affected by 
these assurances. 

“ No, sir, — no promise. She inquired, indeed, when you 
were likely to visit the Chateau, and I told her not till Sep- 
tember. For we did not expect you, sir, before the crops 


]36 THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 

were down, and the harvest fairly over. And she said in 
that case, perhaps she might come again. ’Twas in vain 
my old woman and I assured her that, any way, she might 
come, and take her walk in the gardens, all as one as if you 
were away ; that, by being careful to keep out of your way, 
she need be nowise a hindrance to you, nor you to her . 
She answered something about intrusion ; and, as Septem- 
ber is near at hand without sign or token of her return, I 
fear she will come no more.” 

She came, however, ere Leon had been many days estab- 
lished at the Chateau. He had the happiness, as he sat 
meditating in one of the shady avenues of the gardens, to 
discern, at a distance, between the decrepit figures of Guillot 
and his wife, the graceful person of the Countess de Bre- 
teuil. For a moment, he was uncertain whether to advance 
and address her, or leave her in ignorance of his presence 
at the Chateau. He was convinced that Margaret would 
not have been there, had she known of his arrival at Armen- 
tieres. But to feel her presence — there , in his favourite 
spot — there , in the beautiful haunt of his early years — yet 
make no sign, was impossible. Careful only to avoid com- 
promising the mystery which Margaret seemed forced by 
her father to maintain towards her foster-parents, he hasten- 
ed to welcome the gentle stranger within his gates, with all 
the honors of deferential hospitality. 

Madame de Breteuil was startled and apparently vexed 
by the predicament in which she had placed herself. But 
Baron Galiand, to whom Leon was already known as the 
friend of his son-in-law, willingly accepted the courtesies of 
so distinguished a member of the Imperial household. 
Pleading the privilege of his age, he even begged to be left 
to his siesta, after the excellent collation and choice Bour- 
deaux set before him ; and then it was that Leon and 
Margaret, sauntering out once more into the sunny gardens, 
sat down together, as of old, in a shady nook, and poured 
their hearts to each other in talking of the past, and con- 
cealed them altogether as studiously while talking of the 
present or surmising of the future 1 

Yet Leon fancied he could discern, from the scornful 
smile that involuntarily curved the beautiful lip of Margaret 
when she alluded to herself, she had discovered the Lise- 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


137 


ness of her position, and the hollowness of her new dignities ; 
that she felt her beauty, her youth, her talents, her high- 
i mindedness, to be thrown away on one who affected to sup- 
I port their union, as a penance for his former prodigality. 

She spoke of the court as a place she had visited in bit- 
1 terness and loathing, and would willingly renounce ; and. 
I though she carefully abstained from breathing the name of 
j Philippe de Breteuil, her whole deportment testified to the 
sensitive Leon that she appreciated the worldling as he 
deserved. 

“This is the happiest morning I have spent for years !” 
i! cried D’Armentieres, reluctantly withdrawing his eyes from 
( her animated face, when, at length, she pointed out to him 
| that the golden light of evening was brightening around 
I them, and that the even song of the thrush gave the signal for 
her departure. “ Surely you will come again — or have 1 
! your permission to offer you my homage at Montmorency ?” 

I said he. 

“ My father will probably invite you to visit us,” she 
replied ; “ but let me forestall the request by reminding you 
that my position is a peculiar one ; and assuring you that 
| you will confer a favor on me by declining the proposal.” 

Leon did not remonstrate. The serene composure of 
! Margaret’s manner convinced him she was in earnest. 

Leon d’Armentieres was soon at his post again, involved 
anew in the vortex of the court. But how much wider a 
; portion did the Chateau now claim in his thoughts, connect- 
ed as it was with the fairest form on which he had ever 
looked — with the sweetest image that had ever haunted his 
fancy ! He thought only of “Margaret.” Of the Count- 
i ess Philippe de Breteuil, whose beauty was a proverbial 
word at court, he strove to banish the idea. He wished to 
disencumber the recollection of “ Margaret” of that which 
rendered it painful or pernicious. Something in her dig- 
nity of manner and sentiment, overawed every libertine 
project. 

How manifest was her superiority to all around her ! 
Her vain ambitious father, hungering after ribbons and titles; 
— her heartless, interested husband, ready to sell his 
hand and name for thirty pieces of silver; — the courtly 
minions, her new associates — all, all, were infinitely beneath 
VOL. II. — 13 


138 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


her standard of excellence ; nor dared be presume to bring 
his own merits into comparison with hers. — He felt that be 
must rest satisfied with the place in her affections secured 
by early associations. — A fatal abyss was interposed be- 
tween them. 

Ere the close of the year, however, and while the vivid 
impressions made upon his mind at his last visit to Armen- 
tieres retained their fullest force, rumours which grievously 
concerned the peace of Madame de Breteuil reached the 
ear of Armentieres. Old Galiand, still connected with 
the house of business through whose prosperity he had risen 
to distinction, became involved in a bankruptcy created by 
the already failing fortunes of Napoleon. Reduced to pen- 
ury, his daughter’s fortune dissipated to fulfil the engage- 
ments of her husband, the old man was driven to the neces- 
sity of relinquishing the society of the child for whom he 
was no longer able to secure a home ; and it was supposed 
at the Tuileries that Madame de Breteuil would derive her 
future subsistence from some trifling appointment in the 
household of Maria Louisa. 

“ Poor Margaret !” — was Leon’s involuntary ejaculation, 
as he recalled to mind her expressions of disgust at even 
the remote prospects of such a destiny. Margaret a pris- 
oner at the Tuileries — Margaret obliged to submit to the 
hollow formalities of this heartless place — Margaret com- 
pelled to be grateful for the bitter bread of servitude !” 

He did not even pause to remember that now he should 
daily behold her — that now he should enjoy unintermitting 
intercourse with his friend. He recollected only that Mar- 
garet would be humiliated — that Margaret would be unhap- 
py ; and hastily sat down to make an offer to old Galiand of 
the Chateau d’Armentieres as an asylum for himself and his 
daughter, at least till the return of the Count de Breteuil 
should provide them with a more appropriate residence. 
11 You will do me a favor,” he wrote, “ by accepting the 
use and control of my establishment ; for, having made up 
my mind to absent myself from the Chateau for a year to 
come, and unwilling to dismiss domestics who have been 
faithful to me and mine, I shall be puzzled how to dispose 
of them, unless you kindly consent to exercise my authority 
over my household ” 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


139 


Leon was careful to address his proposals to the old 
Baron rather than to Madame de Breteuil ; and his expec- 
tations that Galiand would be less surprised than flattered by 
his kindness, were strictly fulfilled. And thus, sorely 
against her will, Madame de Breteuil found herself compel- 
led to become the inmate of the Chateau d’Armentieres, or 
relinquish the society of her father ; for she perhaps had 
less confidence than the doting Baron, in Leon’s professions 
of a determination to avoid the place. Those professions, 
nevertheless, were fulfilled to the letter. The young man 
felt pledged by a solemn promise to Margaret — to Marga- 
ret, poor and unprotected — almost as poor, almost as unpro- 
tected, as when first he clasped her hands in his, and saluted 
her by the name of his little wife ! Such an engagement 
was not to be lightly regarded by a man of honor. 

At length, letters arrived from the army — that army 
which, for the first time, was experiencing reverses of fortune ; 
— proving that the Count was at once apprized of the ruin 
of his father-in-law, and of the generous succour afforded 
him by Leon d’Armentieres. “ I find,” wrote the noble 
aide-de-camp, “ that inveterate old fool Galiand has pulled 
the Devil by the tail to some purpose, and gone to the dogs, 
from whom, I fancy, he originally proceeded. You are 
vastly obliging, my dear Leon, to have afforded him a ken- 
nel. My wife seems to possess the instinct of certain ani- 
mals, who, when pressed by the hunters, return to die at the 
place from whence they started. But why do I say die , 
since, from all accounts, Madame de Breteuil is only tco 
likely to survive and enjoy the jointure with which my 
folly or my necessities compelled me to endow her ? 
Meanwhile, flourish the Chateau d’Armentieres! which 
needed only to become an almshouse for my poor relations, 
to acquire all that it wanted of merit in my eyes.” 

“ And he dares to speak of her thus !” exclaimed Leon ; 
“ yet I must not offer her my devoted attachment as a com- 
pensation for his insolence ! I must not even present myself 
before her, to soften the harsh expressions Breteuil has dared 
to use in speaking of her father !” 

Short leisure, however, was afforded to the Baron for 
pondering over the misfortunes of Margaret. Those of 
France and the Emperor forced themselves with imperative 


140 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


interest upon his attention. The deceptive nature of the 
bulletins dispatched from the army of the north was at 
length recognised in Paris ; and, ere the credulons people 
could recover the first shock of their consternation, Napoleon 
himself arrived suddenly at the Tuileries — defeated — a fu- 
gitive ; and it was clear, even to the most partial, that Rus- 
sia was saved, and the military Empire overthrown. One 
consolation was experienced at that moment by the young 
equerry of the King of Rome, Phillippe de Breteuil did not 
accompany his master ! The Count remained with the 
army, for the discharge of duties so dangerous, difficult, and 
distasteful, that he would have been almost content to ex- 
change for them the society of his wife and father-in-law ; 
and quite content to have beheld the Emperor, his benefac- 
tor, roasted in the Kremlin, or frozen on the plain of Boro- 
dino, so that the sacrifice might emancipate his own precious 
person from its present privations. 

The rumor of these national mischances struck a heavy 
blow at Armentieres. A mournful mistrust prevailed in the 
little household ; and one day, as Madame de Breteuil was 
sitting between her father and foster-mother, her hands 
folded desparingly on her knees as she listened to the peev- 
ish murmurs of the old people, the gallop of a horse was 
beard to cease suddenly in the courtyard ; and Leon, pale 
with emotion and exhausted with fatigue, stood amongst 
them. The case was too urgent to admit of deference 
towards the feelings of its feeble inmates. A fatal truth was 
to be told, and quickly. 

iC All is lost 1'* he exclaimed, in a hoarse voice, leading 
apart Madame de Breteuil from the rest. “ The Allies are 
everywhere triumphant, and the Prussians within a day’s 
march of Armentieres !” 

“ Within two days’ march of Paris !” cried Margaret, 
losing sight of her own dangers in the humiliation of her 
country. 

“ Within a day’s march of Armentieres— do you hear me, 
Margaret? — within a day’s march of Armentieres!” cried 
her friend ; ‘f and I cannot remain here to defend you. I 
have hazarded all that is left me-* — my houor — to secure 
this brief interview. The Emperor, my father’s benefactor 
and my own, is on the brink of ruin. My place is by his 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


141 


side ; my sword should be with him. Margaret, I am come 
to bid you farewell — and to tell you, ere I rush into this 
last struggle, that, if l fall, you must be my heir.” And, 
taking a parchment from his vest, he placed it in her cold 
and motionless hands. 

Old Guillot whose ear had caught the announcement 
of the arrival of the Prussians, now hobbled towards them, 
to interpose his lamentations and inquiries. — What was to 
be done ? Were they to resist, or submit to be burned, 
sacked, and pillaged, with Christian fortitude? Or, were 
they to hang out, as their betters were doing on all sides, the 
flag of truce — (God save the mark !) — the drapeau blanc of 
the Bourbons ? 

“ Rather with my own hand apply a lighted brand to the 
foundations of my father’s house 1” exclaimed his indignant 
master. But, as Leon spoke, his eye fell upon the noble 
figure of Margaret, with all its womanly beauties — her large, 
fair, pensive forehead and thoughtful cheeks rendered still 
more dazzlingly pale by the contrast of the luxuriant bands 
of raven hair bound closely round her finely formed head. 
He fancied that she trembled. He fancied that a slight 
quivering was perceptible round her lips, while she listened 
to the repeated ejaculations of the old people : — “ the Prus- 
sians, the Prussians — the barbarous, brutal Prussians !” 

Involuntarily, Leon shuddered, and drew a deep breath, 
as if wanting force to express what next he was about to ut- 
ter. Then, without withdrawing his eyes from the person 
of Margaret, he resumed, in a hoarse whisper — “ Monsieur 
Galiand, you have so long been master here that I should 
be to blame to interfere in this matter. My people, there- 
fore, are at your disposal. Should the enemy take Armen- 
tieres on their line of march, use any precaution you deem 
necessary to your own safety and that of your daughter. — ■ 
Margaret,” he continued, in a lower tone, “when yesterday 
I learned that Breteuil had been among the first to throw- 
aside the tricolor, and desert his regiment, to the con- 
queror, 1 exulted — God forgive me 1 — for I knew such vile^ 
ness would but augment your hatred and contempt for your 
husband. Now, therefore, if 1 follow his footsteps, and give 
over my father’s house to shame, do not thou, at least de- 
spise me. For the sacrifice is wholly for thee; — for thee s 
VOL. II. — 13 * 


142 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


Margaret, whom I have loved so dearly — for thee, whonl, 
from this hour, 1 shall behold no more.” 

Long before Madame de Breteuil recovered her self-posses- 
sion sufficiently to offer him a word of gratitude, Armen- 
tieres had, indeed, disappeared. He had come but to warn 
and to comfort — he could not stay to defend ! — 

“ What is this ?” — muttered old Galiand, picking up the 
parchment that lay unnoticed at her feet ; while Guillot and 
the gardeners made their preparations, by hastily removing 
and secreting all articles of value at the Chateau, and, prof- 
iting by the instruction of the old man, suspended a prodi- 
gious banner, formed of a damask table-cloth, over the 
grand entrance. “ * A deed of bequest to Mary Margaret 
Countess de Breteuil, of the Chateau d’Armentieres !’ 
A very pretty thought on the part of my young friend at 
such a moment. But though there is little chance that a 
rash partisan like Leon will escape so desperate a massa- 
cre as must mark the last day’s struggle in such a cause as 
that of France against the world, — still, my dear child, let 
me beg you not to indulge in any flattering expectations 
from this will of the Baron. Even should you succeed to 
the Armentieres estates, they are so heavily encumbered by 
the mortgages contracted by Leon at the time he so nobly 
became responsible for me to my creditors, that, were the 
property sold off, you would be but little the gainer.” 

“ When he became responsible for you to your creditors ?” 
— faltered Margaret, in a tone of inquiry. 

“ Ay, my dear ; at such a time as this, there is no use in 
keeping the secret ; though Monsieur le Baron always made 
it a great point that you should not be taken into our confi- 
dence. But it is as well you should know that I might 
have ended my days in St. Pelagie, had it not been for the 
generosity of Armentieres. The engagements in which I 
found myself involved by the villainy of my partners were 
such, that nothing\short of the promptitude with which our 
young friend came to my aid could have saved me. The 
more praiseworthy on his part that he is no capitalist, poor 
gentleman. Nothing would serve him but he must raise 
money on his estates to do me sendee.” 

“ But you will be able to repay him ?” inquired Marga- 
ret, growing, if possible, 'paler than before. 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


143 


11 1 did think so, — -I did hope so. But things have beer! 
sinking from bad to worse* and now not a chance remains 
of tile re-establishrilerit of my affairs* To be sure* this 
will be no surprise to the Baron, for his own are scarcely in 
better plight ? and should he survive the struggle of to- 
morrow (Margaret hid her face in her hands and groaned 
aloud) he will probably be compelled, by his mortgagees, to 
sell the estate of Armentieres; — and, in that case, what 
will become of us V 9 

“ What will become of us? — what will become of him!” 
was Margaret’s ejaculation, when, having escaped from her 
father and locked herself into her chamber, she sank upon 
a chair, to muse over the impending horrors of her position, 
and arm her courage for the event. The Prussians at hand 
— her father and herself exposed to their vindictive out- 
rages — her friend about to sacrifice himself for the falling 
cause ! Already, she seemed to hear the uproar of the ap- 
proaching brigades, riotous with conquest and intemperance. 
Already she seemed to behold Leon d’ Armenlieres rushing 
single-handed and alone against the ranks of the enemies of 
France — overcome by numbers — bleeding — mangled — 
crushed — dying among heaps of dead. She pressed her 
convulsed hands upon her ears and eyes, as if to shutout 
sounds and sights at present wholly ideal. She gasped for 
breath ; vainly struggling against terrors amounting to ago- 
ny. At that moment, the disgust with which she was ac- 
customed to contemplate the probability of Breteuil’s re- 
turn was forgotten. Margaret would have borne cheerfully 
with his insults, to have secured the safety of those she 
loved, — her father, and him who had been the means of 
preserving her father’s grey hairs from sorrow and disgrace. 

“ Heaven have mercy on me, and grant me.strength, for 
] must not pray for death — I dare not pray for death !”— - 
she exclaimed, in a concentrated voice, overpowered by the 
throbbing of every pulse in her excited frame. “ No ! — this 
is no moment for me to die ! I must exert myself for the 
sake of my poor old father. I must rally in his defence, as 
he would have done in mine, before old age palsied his fac- 
ulties and powers of action. I must live — I must take pa- 
tience. Yet a while must I bear and suffer. The time is 
not come for my release.” 


144 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


That night, no eye was closed at Armentieres. The 
three poor, feeble, aged beings, so insufficient even to their own 
preservation, trembled with deeper terror when they remem- 
bered that Margaret w as among them, rather to defend than 
be defended ; and scarcely had the morning dawned, when 
detachments of peasants from the environs came thronging to 
the Chateau with tidings that the Prussians were advancing, 
spreading ruin and desolation on their path. But Marga- 
ret was now tranquilized into the calmness of despair. Even 
when the distant report of the enemy’s artillery proclaimed 
their approach, she did but move her lips in secret prayer ; 
nor stirred — nor broke the silence she had preserved through- 
out that night of misery. One after another, harbingers of 
evil rushed in, announcing new disasters, and the rapid prog- 
ress of the troops ; till at length, when their agony w 7 as at 
the utmost, came one with a countenance radiant with joy, 
crying aloud that the brigade which had been seen bearing 
down upon Armentieres had made a sudden diversion to the 
left of the route, so that, avoiding the Chateau, its line of 
march lay through the valley of Montmorency. — Yes the 
Chateau and its inhabitants were safe ! 

Loud and reiterated were the thanksgivings of the help- 
less old people on receiving the welcome intelligence ; yet 
Margaret smitten with a sad presentiment, found no cour- 
age to utter a syllable. The Chateau and its inhabitants 
were safe; but Breteuil was with the triumphant allies, and 
Leon, perhaps, with the slain ! How were her doubts 
to be resolved ? — When should she obtain further informa- 
tion ? 

Amid the confusion incident on the march of a conquer- 
ing army, authentic intelligence was indeed hard to be ob- 
tained. Nothing was known with certainty ; and all that 

was known appeared fabulous. The investure of Paris 

the abdication of the Emperor, — were such things to be 
credited by those who had so long relied on the ascendant 
star of Napoleon ? 

Too speedily, however, and too authentically, was itmade 
known to the unhappy Margaret, that her evil auguries 
were more than fulfilled ; — that the young Baron d’Armen- 
tieres had not only fa 1 1 e n , but fallen a recreant and a traitor! 
Within a few hours of their last interview, Leon was re- 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


145 


ported to have been seen at the Prussian head-quarters, 
was said to have undertaken, on certain conditions, to bring 
over his detachment ; and to have been sacrificed by his 
men at the moment of attempting to shake their fidelity to 
1 he Emperor. To obtain more exact details was impossible. 
Margaret had not even the comfort of knowing in what spot 
of earth the head she loved was laid in the dust. His name 
had already become a word of reproach among his men. They 
admitted that the body had been stripped for burial, when 
the advance of the enemy caused their position to be sud- 
denly evacuated : what became of the corse of the renegade, 
they neither knew nor cared. 

“ So gallant — so noble — -yet to die the death of a traitor !” 
exclaimed Margaret, as she sat, many weeks afterward, 
resting her heavy head against the trunk of the old lime 
tree, under whose branches they had so often played of 
yore, and where they had sat together at her first visit to 
the Chateau, after her ill-starred marriage. Her heart sick- 
ened as she looked upon the summer sky, and felt the light- 
some breath of the summer breezes upon her cheek ; and 
remembered that Napoleon was pining in exile and captivity, 
and his young soldier lying in a dishonoured grave ! But, 
above all, Breteuil was enjoying the fruits of his treachery ; 
and she trembled at the certainty that the letters he had 
already addressed her must soon be followed by a personal 
interview, indispensable to determine the relative position 
l they were in future to maintain towards each other. For 
she had no longer a right to heap upon him the scorn 
: earned by his treachery, now that Leon — her friend, her 
brother — had gone and done likewise. She dreaded the 
arrival of the Count more, in fact, from the fear that he 
might insult the memory of the unfortunate d’Armentieres, 
than from any personal apprehension of either his love or 
hatred. Breteuil had already expressed his wish for a 
legal separation ; and, but for the necessities of her father, 
Margaret would have acceded to his proposal without a 
single condition. But what was to become of the decripit 
and destitute old man, now that his benefactor was in the 
dust? From that epoch of terror, when the arrival of the 
Prussian troops had been hourly expected, Baron Galiand 
had been in a state of childishness ; and now that the legal 


146 THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 

term approached for removing the seals placed by the au- 
thorities of the district on the property of Armentieres, on 
receiving an official announcement of Leon’s decease, it be- 
came necessary to provide some asylum for the invalid. 

Twice did Margaret humiliate herself so far as to address 
to her husband a representation of the difficulties of her po- 
sition, and an entreaty for his commands. Breteuil was 
still silent ; and, on the day when the heirs-at-law were to 
arrive at the Chateau, to sanction with their presence the 
formalities of the law, Galiand and his daughter took refuge 
from general observation in a miserable cottage, situated on 
the verge of the forest, which had been sacked and partly 
destroyed by a skirmishing party at the passage of the allied 
troops. It was settled that they were to return at nightfall, 
and take up their temporary residence with Guillot and his 
wife ; but, long before night, long before even noon, the old 
porter bustled his way to the hovel in quest of his beloved 
nursling. Strange tidings awaited her. In examining the 
valuables hastily moved from their secreting place, and 
amassed together, to be sealed up by the Juge de Paix, one 
of the first objects discovered was the will confided by Leon 
to the unheeding charge of Margaret at their last cruel inter- 
view ; by virtue of which Madame de Breteuil became sole 
inheritor of the estates of Armentieres ! 

“ If the old gentleman yonder had been himself,” cried 
Guillot, pointing to Galiand, who sat with drivelling lip and 
lustreless eye, unconscious of all that was passing around 
him, “ he would not have lost sight of the precious docu- 
ment as you, my poor dear child, seem to have done. To 
be sure we have had trouble enough, since that black morn- 
ing, to drive everything from our heads. But if you had 
only given me a hint that the Baron had made over to you 
the whole of his property •” 

“ Did he make over to me the whole of his property ?” 
demanded Margaret with a bewildered air. “ True — I re- 
member now ! It was on perusing that will, my father first 
acquainted me with the extent of our obligations to Leon ; 
it was in perusing that will, I experienced a presentiment 
that we had parted forever. But from that hour to this, the 
noble bequest of Leon has never crossed my mind.” 

“In the confusion of the moment, the old Baron must 



THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 147 

have placed the parchment, for security, among the other 
family archives,” said Guillot ; “ and thus, Heaven be 

thanked, it has come to light.” 

After the momentary exultation consequent on finding 
herself preserved from want, and able to secure to her 
father’s old age an asylum for which she was again indebted 
to the generosity of her only friend, Margaret half regretted 
the discovery of the will. First, came the murmurs and re- 
proaches of the surviving relatives of Leon ; next, the con- 
ciliatory advances of her husband. It appears that Breteuil, 
though largely benefitted by the fruits of his treason, found 
both places and pensions insufficient for the maintenance of 
his prodigal libertinism ; and no sooner were the Countess’s 
claims fully established, than he made his appearance at the 
Chateau — prepared, since conciliation had proved unavail- 
ing, — to go all lengths in the exercise of his authority. 

<f Your friend the Baron (for friend, I suppose, I must in 
courtesy continue to call him) seems, madam to have very 
imperfectly studied your interests,” observed he, with the 
coolest contempt ; “ since his disposal of the Armentieres 
estates was executed in ignorance that, by his form of con- 
veyance, the husband of his mistress, and not herself, is en- 
titled to their enjoyment.” 

“ My friend, the Baron, probably considered,” replied 
Margaret, without deigning to notice the implied insult, 
“ that a virtual separation having taken place between us, 
Count. Philippe de Breteuil would scorn to participate in a 
bequest of so peculiar a nature.” 

“ He must have thought me, then, a greater ass than the 
sequel will prove!” — cried Breteuil, with a forced laugh. 
“ My marriage has been too bitter a pill for me to dispense 
with the gilding now afforded. Defrauded of the inheritance 
promised by your father, this pitiful estate must assist in 
filling up the deficit. I learn, indeed, from my lawyer,” he 
continued, fixing a significant look upon Margaret, “ that 
deeds are in existence, establishing your father’s liability to 
the amount of certain mortgages hampering the estate ; and 
that I, as husband of the universal legatee, am become the 
creditor of Monsieur Galiand. It depends upon yourself, 
madam, to render me a lenient one.” 

“That Leon should have sacrificed life and honour for 


148 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


the preservation of this property, in order to cast it away 
upon the man whom he despised !” exclaimed Madame de 
Breteuil, irritated beyond all self-control by the baseness of 
her husband’s threats. 

“ Are you so complete an idiot as to imagine/’ retorted 
Breteuil, “ that it was only to preserve his old rat-hole of a 
Chateau, that d’Armentieres sold himself to the Prussians ? 
You know better 1 You are fully aware that the chaste 
wife of his friend was the object of his generous solicitude. 
Yes!” added he, stamping with fury as he spoke — “ yes ! 
you are perfectly aware that, had his Margaret been in a 
place of safety, the Prussians might have used the founda- 
tions of his father’s hearth for paving-stones tor aught he 
cared. You — you were the cause of his death — you the 
cause of his shame, as you are now of mine !” — 

A flood of tears — the first she had shed since her misfor- 
tunes — came to the relief of Madame de Breteuil. Leon 
was acquitted — Leon was guiltless ! What had she done to 
become the object of so dear, so rooted a devotion ? or 
what had she done to incur the calamity of losing so true a 
friend ? 

But her position admitted not of indulgence in such 
emotions. Many as had been her earthly trials, she felt 
that more awaited her. Breteuil was little inclined to neg- 
lect so advantageous an opportunity of establishing himself 
in the favour of a certain portion of the community, as by 
the possession of a fine chateau de chasse in the neighbour- 
hood of Paris. His present object was to make Armentieres 
his residence, as a pretext for absenting himself from a court 
where he was regarded with mistrust ; little doubting that 
his wife would be content to come to terms of compromise, 
accepting a sufficient maintenance for herself and her father, 
on condition of his undertaking to liquidate the incumbrances 
of the Armentieres estate. But the noble Margaret, ever 
ready to sacrifice her feelings to the claims of others, ac- 
quainted him that the impossibility of removing her infirm 
father from a home which habit rendered dear and familiar, 
would compel her to the painful necessity of remaining 
under the same roof with him ; and, though arrangements 
were made to prevent all further intercourse between them, 
Breteuil was at small pains to conceal his disappointment at 
her tenacity. 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


149 


He resolved to weary out, by a series of petty personal 
annoyances, the patience of one whose mind he could not 
bend, whose heart he could not break. Persuaded that the 
determination of Margaret to remain at Armentieres origina- 
ted in her attachment for her dead lover more than for her 
living father, he strove to wound her feelings in every point 
which the memory of Leon rendered vulnerable. Assuming 
with the utmost rigour, the masterhood conceded him by the 
laws, he caused all the favourite horses of the Baron to be 
sold, the favourite dogs to be destroyed. The old servants 
of the family were ignominiously dismissed. Even Guillot 
and his grey-headed wife were thrust out from the place 
which a location of fifty years seemed to have consecrated 
as their own. But Margaret beheld all in silence. She 
knew that remonstrance or reproach would but aggravate the 
evil ; and that Philippe de Breteuil acknowledged no moral 
responsibility either to Heaven above or man below. 

Such were the destinies of Margaret — the fearful fruit of 
a disorganized frame of society ! — 

“ What but misery could spring from a marriage so dis- 
proportionate as mine ?” faltered the high-minded Countess, 
as she roamed through the gardens, now grown cheerless in 
her eyes. “ Nature was outraged by such a compact, and 
my death alone will make atonement. A few short months, 
and my father will drop into the grave; when I shall be 
free to lay my head beside his hoary hairs. For so short a 
space, surely this man might leave me unmolested ! 1 chal- 
lenge not his rights — 1 resist not his encroachments — I op- 
pose not his authority. Let him but refrain from insulting 
the dead — from desecrating all that is hallowed in my eyes 
by the memory of Leon — and the estate of Armentieres 
will soon be at his disposal.” 

Wandering in sorrowful meditation, the steps of Margaret 
gradually traversed the pleasure-grounds. Having crossed 
the brook, she entered the shady pathways of those hanging 
woods where Leon and herself had enjoyed together so 
many a solitary hour. Her father was, as usual, sleeping 
away his afternoon ; Breteuil and a company of guests 
were off to the chase in an opposite direction ; and the un- 
happy woman felt doubly at liberty to enjoy her only re- 
maining solace — the free light and free air of heaven, in 
VOL. II. — 14 


150 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


solitude and silence. Pausing here and there, to dwell upon 
reminiscences of happier times, or to pluck a flower from 
the very root which had once appeared to throw up its 
silvery blossoms for her delight and the delight of one who 
must behold them no more, the Countess found herself at 
length resting against the stem of a shattered tree, close 
beside the isolated hovel in which she and her father had 
taken refuge on the day of the arrival of the judges of the 
district. 

“ Better, perhaps, had the will never been found !” she 
exclaimed, flinging a careless glance upon the blackened 
walls. “ Were the natural heirs of Leon possessors here, 
would they havedriven forth his poor to perish? — Would 
theAj have dismissed his faithful servants, or slain his faithful 
dog? — Better had the will never been found !” — 

And with the restlessness of feelings ill at ease, Margaret 
was about to enter the cottage, when she perceived, with 
surprise, that the door, usually hanging shattered upon its 
hinges, was carefully closed. She applied her hand to the 
lock, to ascertain the cause of so strange a circumstance ; 
hut, lo ! the door was barred and bolted within. 

Attributing the change to some caprice on the part of the 
Count de Breteuil, Margaret was about to quit the spot and 
pursue her lonely wanderings, when, fixing her eyes in- 
quiringly upon the dilapidated building as she regained the 
path, she heard the lock grate as with a turning key, and 
saw the door slowly open upon its hinges. Yet no one 
came forth — no one was visible — and a cold dew of terror 
rose upon the brow of the Countess, as the mystery seemed 
to involve itself in supernatural agency. To fly the place, 
was her only resource. But she seemed rooted to the spot ; 
and when, as she stood with her eyes riveted on the building, 
she fancied she could discern her name pronounced in hoarse 
accents from within, a paroxysm of bewilderment seemed to 
inspire her. She rushed back to the hovel and crossed its 
blackened threshold. 

“ Margaret !” murmured a hollow voice, while a gaunt 
arm extended itself, and the door was violently closed and 
eagerly barred behind her — “ Margaret ! are you come at 
last?” 

“ Yes, I am come !” she replied, gazing with awe upon 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


151 


that which she held to be the apparition of her departed 
friend. “ I am come to lay my head cheerfully beside you 
in the grave. Nor had I tarried so long, but for the desola- 
tion of my poor friendless father.” 

“ Margaret !” faltered anew the voice of Leon d’Armen- 
tieres, as he flung back the matted locks from his wasted 
face, which the imperfect light, glimmering through the 
shuttered windows, scarcely enabled her to discern — “ I 
know that I am unworthy to stand before you ; that I am 
one whose name is blotted out from the memories of hon- 
ourable men. But if I betrayed my annointed sovereign, 
and spat upon the cause of the country I had sworn to serve, 
it was for your sake, — for yours whom, at the cost of honour 
and principle, I redeemed from a destiny worse than death ! 
For you I trafficked with the enemy ; — and speedy was my 
retribution ! Attacked by my men — wounded — stunned — 
breathless — the peasants who snatched me from death har- 
boured me under their roof from week to week, indifferent to 
my name or nature. The common tie of humanity sufficed 
them. On that field, expired my better life. Henceforward 
the name of Leon d’Armentieres is with the dead ; and the 
heart that loves you, Margaret ; — ay, that loves you still, 
though crushed by shame, and feeble with long months of 
agony and danger, — is that of a nameless outcast ; who has 
dragged himself hither but to look upon you again, and pros- 
trate himself before you for one last word of pardon and 
pity !” — 

As with slow and languid utterance these declarations 
proceeded from the parched lips of the haggard wretch be- 
fore her, Margaret drew gradually nearer to him, fixed a 
more piercing gaze upon his face, and lent a more eager ear 
to those feeble accents ; till conviction and transport came 
at once, and an hysterical shriek burst from the depths of 
her heart, as she cried aloud that Leon was restored to her — 
that the breath of life was, indeed, in his nostrils, and the 
yearning of human affection in his heart ! — 

“ You are come to resume your rights,” cried she exult- 
ingly. “ You are come to diffuse happiness — to dispense 
justice. The poor and the aged, the sick and the sorrowing, 
will bless the day that restores you to the home of your 
fathers !” — 


152 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


11 1 am come for none of this, my Margaret/’ answered 
Leon, mildly. “ He who would diffuse happiness, must 
have peace within his own bosom. He who would dispense 
justice, must have a conscience free from reproach. The 
name which has become a byword among men, must never 
more presume to connect itself with the awards of virtue.” 

“ Mean you,” cried Margaret, receding from his clasping 
arms, “ that you abandon to the caprices of Monsieur de 
Breteuil the poor who have laboured for you, or even the 
hound that has fawned upon you ? — You cannot be so heart- 
less — so poor of spirit l” 

“ Despise me, since it needs must be so,” replied the 
broken-hearted man, falling on the bench from which he had 
arisen on her approach to the cottage ; “ for 1 do, indeed, 
want courage to brave the revilings of my brethren in arms 
— the scorn of the humble soldier, whose fidelity to his mas- 
ter raises him so high above me ! I have severed myself 
from the past ! — Much anguish, nights of delirium, seem to 
have divided me from my very self. The sole portion to 
winch I cling, is the remembrance of Margaret 1 of Margar- 
et, for whom I abjured all that might have bound me to life. 
My determination is taken ! I am about to quit France., 
Self-condemned to the destiny of Cain, I will bear my 
burthen of remorse to another hemisphere ! But I felt that 
it was not denied me to look on you again ere I departed ; 
and I came hither, Margaret, in the shadow of night, — 1 
took refuge in this desolate place, — I have lingered here 
three days, three nights, without rest, without food, trusting 
that chance would bring you hither, or enable me to seek 
your presence. I am exhausted now — miserably exhausted. 
Had you delayed till another day, you might have found me 
lifeless here, — my unclosed eyes still turned towards the 
home of my fathers, the walls that contain all that is dear to 
me on earth.” 

“ Return with me openly to the Chateau,” said Margaret, 
firmly. “ Be yourself, Leon ! — Rise superior to the sport of 
circumstances. In an hour of mad excitement, you sinned 
against your better reason. In calm afterthought, you have 
repented — have made atonement. The past will be forgotten, 
your frailty forgiven. Return with me, and resume your 
rights !” — 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


153 


<( Never murmured her companion. “ Under the domi- 
nation of the Bourbons, France is no country for me. You, 
may overlook my faults — I will not hazard the contumely of 
others !” — 

“ Return with me,” persisted Margaret. “ Return, my 
friend — my champion — my brother! Did you know how I 
have been trampled on — did you know what misery is heaped 
on my head ” 

“ Come thou rather, then, with me /” interrupted Leon, 
seizing her hands, and pressing them to his bosom. “ Come 
with me to the land of labor and content. There, Margaret 
— there we will create anew an honorable name — there we 
shall be happy — there ” 

<£ There we should be $e//^condemned, even as here 
condemned by the sentence of mankind,” replied Margaret, 
extricating herself from his embraces. “Would you have 
me despise you — would you have me despise myself — even 
as I despise and detest such things as Philippe de Breteuil ? 
No, Leon ! Still let me love and reverence you as a dear 
and most devoted friend — as one for whom I would lay 
down my life, or with whom I would as gladly share it, 
could our union subsist without a crime. But you are faint,” 
cried she, perceiving that his head drooped lower upon his 
bosom. “ You need food — you want repose. Leon — dear 
Leon — lean on me*. To the Chateau — to the Chateau !” 

Fruitless were her exhortations. The excitement pro- 
duced by their re-union once tranquillized, D’Armentieres 
sank slowly on the ground, overpowered by fatigue, inani- 
tion, fever, and pain. Reluctant as she was to leave him in 
such a condition, Margaret felt that her only chance of pre- 
serving his life was to hasten back to the house to procure aid 
and nourishment ; and, whispering a few words of encour- 
agement in his scarcely conscious ear, she hurried from tho 
place, recrossed the brook, and, with incredible speed, re- 
gained the Chateau. 

The first person she encountered on entering the court- 
yard, was the Count de Breteuil ! Uttering a scarcely in- 
telligible excuse, she broke from him, to provide herself with 
wine and other restoratives. But the suspicions of Breteuil 
being excited by her incoherence, he insisted on an expla- 
nation ; refusing to lose sight of her till she made an a*' 
VOL. II. 14 * 


154 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


confession of the cause of her agitation. There was no 
alternative. Delay must be fatal to Leon. She told all. — 
She implored the assistance of Breteuil, — she threw herself 
on his mercy ! 

But for the intense agitation manifested by his wife, Bre- 
teuil would probably have regarded her miraculous narrative 
as the coinage of a disordered mind. But there was no 
mistrusting the irrepressible emotion of Margaret. He doubt- 
ed not for a moment that Leon still lived, and had returned 
to claim his own. 

“You say truly — not a moment must be lost!” he ex- 
claimed, drawing her suddenly into the vaulted chamber 
which served as the domestic chapel of the Chateau. And, in 
a moment, the Countess discovered that she had fallen into 
a snare — that she was a prisoner — that the secret of Leon 
was in the keeping of his deadliest enemy ! Vainly did she 
shriek for help — vainly tear her hair, and call for mercy ! 
The chapel stood apart from the house ; no one heard — no 
one heeded. The heavy minutes lenghthened into hours. 
The evening light from the lofty windows proclaimed the 
close of day ; and Margaret felt that the fate of Leon was 
by that time decided ! To the impassionate state of ex- 
citement under which, she had been laboring, succeeded, at 
length, a heavy stupor. In her intervals of consciousness she 
perceived that food was set beside her — that a mattrass had 
been placed for her on the marble floor. 

At length, she heard footsteps approaching the door, and 
starting up, strove to smooth her disordered dress, and bind 
back her dishevelled hair. But when the infamous Bre- 
teuil, followed by several strangers, entered the chapel, 
unable to restrain herself, she rushed towards him, and de- 
manded, with frantic violence, what he had done with her 
friend, — -whether Leon yet lived, and lived for her. 

“You perceive, gentlemen,” said Breteuil, addressing him- 
self to his companions, “ that my statement was not exag- 
gerated. A more confirmed case of mental aberration never 
manifested itself. Before, however, you remove this un- 
happy lady to the asylum at Charenton, I could wish you 
to examine her case more particularly. You will find her 
insist that the unfortunate Baron d’Armentieres (who, as you 
all know, fell a victim six months ago in the neighborhood 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


155 


of Montereau) is still alive and inhabiting this Chateau. 
She will tell you that she saw him yesterday,” he continued, 
disengaging from his sleeve the grasping hands of Margaret, 
and turning away from the expressive glance fixed by her 
dark eyes upon his face. 

“ And is your villany equal to this ?” — she ejaculated, 
perceiving in a moment the drift of his assertions. 

“You will, I trust, be gentle in your treatment, gentle- 
men,” resumed Breteuil, preparing to quit the room. “This 
lady merits every deference, — every consideration at your 
hands.” 

He went ; — and Margaret trusted that, during his absence 
her simple history would suffice to enlighten the professional 
judges to whom her case was entrusted. But to her grief 
and dismay, she perceived that every word she uttered, 
yielding confirmation to their preconceived idea, served only 
to establish the evidence of her insanity. 

“ Poor creature, — poor unhappy young creature !” ex- 
claimed the elder of the physicians. “ It is her fixed desire, 
1 perecive, to take us with her to the hovel, where she de- 
clares this Baron (doubtless some former lover) to be con- 
cealed. Let us indulge her caprice. The concession may 
assisit our conjectures as to the probable duration of her 


malady,” 

“ Now, then,” thought Margaret, “ all is safe, and my 
rationality established. I shall be set at liberty — at liberty 
to seek out Leon !” 

But on conducting them through the gardens to the fatal 
cottage, the Countess noticed, as she approached, that the 
door was once more ajar. 

“ He is gone !” she cried, clasping her hands. “Many 
days and nights have elapsed since the scene I described to 
you. Heaven grant he may have so far recovered as 
to have escaped this place !” 

She paused on the threshhold. A sickening chill came 
over her. Not a trace of Leon was there ! Breteuil, who 
now joined the party, cast significant glances at the doctors, 
as if to point out the authentication of his previous state- 
ments. But Margaret observed that his eye unquietly fol- 
lowed hers, as she pursued her investigations ; and, noting 
the uneasiness of his looks, she fancied he turned pale as 


156 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


she approached a certain spot of the chamber in which she 
had found and left Leon d’Armentieres. 

“ Behold!” cried she to her companions, “ here are 
traces of a struggle on the trampled ground, — here are blood 
spots, — here is human hair scattered about ! And, lo ! this 
fragment of dark grey cloth — I can swear to it as part of the 
tattered dress worn by my ill-fated friend ! I understand it 
all ! Leon has been murdered, ay, murdered 

“ You hear her?” observed Berteuil, with a mournful 
wave of the head. “ She is becoming violent again. 
Coercion, I fear, may be once more necessary. The soon- 
er, therefore, she is removed from this place, and perma- 
nently established under your care, the better for her health 
and comfort.” 

“ You will not surely take me hence without further ex- 
amination ?” shrieked Margaret, as they were about to lead 
her from the cottage. “Let the worst be ascertained. I 
swear to you that Leon has been assassinated ! His remains 
cannot be far from hence. Let the wood be searched — let 
the ground be dug up.” 

“ She will injure herself by this violence !” said Breteuil 
mildly. “Carry her, therefore, to the carriage, and instant- 
ly away to Charenton. It is too severe a trial to behold my 
unfortunate wife in this condition.” 

***** 

Such is the strange eventful history it was my fortune to 
hear on visiting some years ago the lunatic asylum at Char- 
enton. The beautiful woman by whom it was recounted to 
me, was evidently pining away into the grave. All her cry 
was for justice, — justice against the murderer of Leon, justice 
against her husband ! 

The illusions possessing the brain of the unfortunate Mar- 
garet, were of course met only by more rigorous treatment 
on the part of her keepers ; for Count Philippe de Breteuil 
her husband is one of the most popular men in existence, 
and has served with distinction in a recent administration of 
the present government. 

Nothing can exceed the sympathy testified towards him on 
account of the infirmity of his wife. 

“ There was probably insanity pre-existing in her family,” 
say they. “ However, he deserves some punishment for 


THE WIFE OF AN ARISTOCRAT. 


157 


having condescended to such a mesalliance 
obscure nobody, — a Margaret Galiand,— 
grandfather, — being snatched out of her 
become the Wife of an Aristocrat !” 


! The idea of an 
-a girl without a 
humble sphere to • 


. 

. . ’ •’ i 






NEIGHBOR GREY AND HER 
DAUGHTER. 


Among the vestiges of Papistry still perceptible in Eng- 
land, is the dedication of every town and village to some 
patron saint. This latent influence of a “ creed outworn,” 
assumes, however, a very harmless shape ; by fixing the 
epochs of fairs and feasts, — of fairs which tend to the an- 
nual or bi-annual recreation of our towns, and of feasts 
which serve to gather together, once a year, the scattered 
tribes of our villages. Neither France nor Belgium is more 
punctilious in keeping up the fetes , ducasses, ornerinesses 
of its hamlets and villages, than the northern districts of 
England ! — 

It was at Falkstone Feast that the simple heart of Mary 
Gray became very unexpectedly exposed to the seductions 
of a London suitor. Falkstone is a pretty village on the 
confines of Nottinghamshire ; which, every November, — 
just as its soil becomes glutinized into the consistency of 
pitch, and the little brook by which it is traversed swells 
so as to render the lower grounds impassable, — rewards it- 
self for the arrival of winter and typhus fever by celebrating 
its annual feast, dedicated, in the olden time, as well as its 
parish church, to the cloak-rending saint, St. Martin ; and 
solemnized, in latter times, with considerable slaughter of 


160 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


fatted calves, and a massacre of half the fowls and turkeys 
of the barnyards of the neighborhood. 

Every 11th of November, down come flitches and hams 
from housewifely chimneys. Barrels of beer are broached 
in the richer farms; long-hoarded and long-bearded bottles of 
currant, or cowslip wine* are brought forth ; a glorious con- 
fusion of pork-pies and apple-pies steams in the oven ; and 
scarce a hut or hovel in Falkstone so wanting in means or 
public spirit, as not to show a well-scoured deal table cov- 
ered with some sort of cheer, from the well-spiced round of 
pressed beef, down to a barley-loaf and angle of pale-faced 
Derby cheese, — in order to welcome from afar the kinsfolk 
and acquaintance, the hundredth cousins or neighbors’ child- 
ren, who repair, for the annual renewal of such associations, 
to the clayey parish, constituting what is called their “ native 
soil.’’ The custom is as good as it is old. Patriotism is the 
natural growth of such attachments. As the abounding 
river is fed by tributary streamlets, love of parish, county, 
country, form an inevitable gradation of patriotic virtue. 

Twenty years ago, Falkstone was so fortunate as to boast 
of four Tritons among its fifteen hundred minnows. The 
manor was let off in small farms. None of the inhabitants 
were very wealthy, none of them very poor ; and, conse- 
quently, as few of them subject to the pangs of envy as the 
infirmities of human nature would allow. The homely old 
church boasted not a single pew whose hassocks were cov- 
ered with a nobler tissue than rush matting ; and, excepting 
one very severe winter, not a Christian was known to have 
died of want in the place. This, considering that the rector 
was a non-resident, and that Falkstone boasted no squire’s 
family to parade its Christmas dole of coals and blankets, is 
as much as can be expected of any decent parish of modem 
times. 

Among the poorer inhabitants, was a widow woman known 
by the name of Neighbor Gray. “Neighbor,” by the way, 
is a title of honor peculiar to village life. Stiff-necked Gros- 
venor square disdains the bonds of neighborship ; and, even 
in country towns, people are beginning to ignore the exist- 
ence of the regard derivable a century ago from similar pro- 
pinquities. But in places such as Falkstone, a neighbor (in 
the worldly as well as the Christian sense of the word) still 


AND HKR DAUGHTER. 


161 


implies one who is to be loved as thyself; one who has a 
claim for succor and support ; one whose sheep you are to 
assist in pulling out of a ditch ; whose sicknesses you are 
to aid in nursing, and whose offspring you are to save from 
oppression. In Falkstone, after slaving all day in the har- 
vest-field, you would be expected to sit up at night with a 
sick “ neighbor,” who had none other to “ do for her ;” just 
as, in Grosvenor square, it would be a breach of politeness 
even to inquire after the health of a dying next-door neigh- 
bor, on whose visiting-list your name has not been previously 
inscribed — so officious an act exposing you to the opprobri- 
ous suspicion of trying to force an acquaintance with the in- 
mates. 

Neighbor Gray, to her honor be it spoken, had never 
been known at Falkstone under any other denomination : 
she was neither Mrs. Gray in her husband’s life-time, nor 
Widow Gray after his decease ; nor was even old age and 
misery likely to reduce her to the ignominy of “ Goody” — 
for she was a friendly, serviceable woman, who had done 
much to merit her distinction ; having acquired as much 
popularity by the kind-hearted activity with which she lent 
a hand at neighbor’s baking, brewing, washing, or scrubbing, 
as ever was obtained by the dinners of a noble lord, boast- 
ing a French cook with a salary doubling that of the curate 
of Falkstone. Neighbor Gray was, accordingly, a very 
happy woman. She lay down to rest every night, rich 
in the good-will of every soul to whom her name was fa- 
miliar. 

Of her two children, Dick, the elder, had died in his 
apprenticeship, while Mary lived wkh her mother, — a pretty, 
delicate girl, too pretty and too delicate for the stirring du- 
ties likely to fall to her lot ; for hard service was the only 
prospect of Mary Gray. In order to lay by something for 
her mother’s old age (who, as a poor widow disdaining parish 
aid, had been able to lay by nothing for herself,) Mary 
must inevitably look out for a place as soon as she should 
attain her seventeenth year, and some degree of strength 
and self-reliance. But Mary had no means of reaching 
London, where her prettiness and gentility might pass for 
qualifications ; and the farmers’ wives had little mind to en- 
vol. ii. — 15 


162 


neighbor gray 




gage a poor slip of a girl, who looked as if she had scarcely 
strength to turn a mangle or handle a churn. 

For the sake of Neighbor Gray, so good a char-woman 
in her time, they gave her daughter employment in needle- 
work ; but Mary was able to earn little more than her day’s 
food ; and this was the more lamentable, because her moth- 
er was showing symptoms of infirmity. A clay floor in a 
damp village, and hard labor fourteen hours a-day, are as 
apt to bring on premature old age as the enervation of hot 
rooms and fashionable vigils ; and want of sufficient nour- 
ishment is as hard a pull upon the constitution as those evil 
results which the President of the College of Physicians 
denounces to the lordly epicure his patient, from a course 
of turtle and venison. Mary saw that her mother would 
soon need her assistance, and promised herself that, at the 
next Statute, she would certainly attempt to put herself for- 


ward in life. 

Previous, however, to the Statute, unluckily came Falk- 
stone Feast ; and Neighbor Gray having been engaged to 
aid in the grand preparations at Welland’s farm, was invited 
to bring her daughter and share in the general entertainment 
during the three days of the Feast. Open house was kept; 
and, on the third night, the festivities were to end with a 
supper and dance in Farmer Welland’s barn, at which near- 
ly all the inhabitants of Falkstone were to be present. 
Neighbor Gray figured, for that night only, in the gown of 
gay glazed calico in which, every feast since her wedding- 
day, she had made her annual appearance ; and Mary 
thought herself almcfet too fine in a new stuff gown, spun by 
the hands of her mother, and sewed by her own. Both 
were very happy. Mary’s eyes were bright with girlish 
joyousness, and her usually pale cheeks flushed with the ex- 
citement of the season ; while Neighbor Gray was suffi- 
ciently happy in hearing from so many old friends, become 
strangers by long absence from the village, what a pretty 
lass little Mary had turned out ; and knowing that most of 
the guests gathered together at Falkstone, pronounced her 
daughter to be the queen of the village. Nor were Mary’s 
ears less attentive than those of her mother. Admiration 
flushed her cheek to a yet brighter blush, and lighted up a 
still more brilliant sparkle in her eyes ; and when she found 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


163 


herself chosen as a partner for the opening of the ball, by 
“ a young gentleman from Lon’on, visiting at the farm ” — 
an object of contention to all the coquettes of the village, 
— poor Mary smiled a smile well worthy of a London 
beauty. 

William Harding, the young gentleman from Lon’on, who 
was visiting Falkstone in company with the young nephew 
of old Welland, and heir to his property, seemed to consid- 
er it his duty to make up in courtesy and vivacity for the 
taciturn reserve of Frank Welland ; who was what is call- 
ed in England, among the great, high ; among the little, 
odd-tempered ; and what ought to be called, among great, 
little, and middle-sized, shy. Shyness is in fact one of the 
most prevalent national peculiarities of our countrymen ; 
taking various shapes, according to station and estate, but 
insuring the common consequence of rendering the sufferer 
an object of dislike instead of commiseration. Frank Wel- 
land, even in his native village, passed for a disagreeable, 
sulky young man ; while William Harding was voted, by 
general acclamation, a good fellow, before he had been four- 
and-twenty hours in the place. He sang a good song, told 
a good story ; and, when he stood up to dance with Mary, 
they made as pretty a couple as had ever been seen in Falk- 
stone. It was only Neighbor Gray (who had been present 
at Frank W'elland’s birth and helped to lay his parents in 
the grave) that inclined in favor of the stern, sullen, hard- 
featured youth, who stood silently looking on, disdaining to 
join in the dance — some said, because he was too proud, 
some, because he was too good, but, in reality, because he 
was too shy. 

William Harding, meanwhile, was not only free from any 
such infirmity ; but the necessity of making from an early 
age his own way in the world, had impressed upon his mind 
the. conviction that popularity is one of the stepping-stones 
to advancement. He had not naturally a bad disposition ; 
but, without parents to turn his good ones to account, the 
germs withered for want of sunshine.. Reared by the fami- 
ly of a distant relation to which he was a burthen, William 
Harding grew up prudent instead of virtuous. Character, 
not excellence, was his aim in life ; and, just as he saw his 
cousin, the Cheapside mercer, insist upon the advantage of 


164 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


a good surface to his silks and satins as an equally vendi- 
ble quality with the more costly one of solid consistency, 
William came to regard reputation as the one thing needful, 
both in public and private life. Some people talk, in all 
awkward emergencies, of “ putting a good face on the mat- 
ter William Harding’s course consisted in putting a good 
face upon life. 

It was perhaps the unpopularity of his friend Frank Wel- 
land (who officiated, first as clerk, and next as junior part- 
ner, in a small house of business adjoining the large one of 
his own wealthy relative) which first roused his attention to 
the prudence of being agreeable; and all that Neighbor 
Gray performed at Falkstone, out of the abundance of her 
warm feelings and Christian principles, was done in Cheap- 
side by William Harding as a matter of calculation. He had 
computed the per. centage likely to be returned by his good 
offices ; and proved so adroit a moral arithmetician, that his 
cheery fortnight at Welland’s farm was the repayment of 
his attentions to Frank during a long illness the preceding 
winter. Even of the relations by whom, as an awkward 
boy, he had been disliked as a burthen, he contrived, be- 
tween fifteen and twenty, to render himself a favourite. He 
was so useful, so civil, so attentive ! It was the fate of the 
rich mercer to outlive his children, with the exception of 
one puny daughter ; and already it was predicted in the 
city, that old Harding would eventually bestow Sophia and 
her fortune upon the kinsman who was so useful to him in 
his business, and so comfortable to him in his domestic life ; 
or, if the young lady chose otherwise, that the business in 
Cheapside, at least, would descend to William Harding. At 
present, however, he was still on probation. Sophy was 
only sixteen, and William, at four-and-twenty, still a shop- 
man with a good salary. He might either be discarded on 
the morrow, or promoted to be the son-in-law of his master. 

Such was the state of things at the period of his visit to 
Welland’s farm ; which visit, much as he seemed to enjoy 
it, was a matter of calculation. William thought his relation 
slow in pressing his advancement ; and, fancying that old 
Harding, from whose side, for ten years past, he had never 
been separated half as many days, might be stimulated by 
his absence to a higher appreciation of his utility, humbly 


AND her daughter. 


165 


requested leave to accompany his bosom friend, Frank 
Welland, into Notts. 

“ Why what can Frank Welland be wanting to leave 
town for, at this stirring season, just as the winter orders are 
coming in?” demanded the matter-of-fact mercer of Cheap- 
side. 

“ He is going, sir, to visit the uncle who brought him up.” 

The mercer sneered. 

“ The uncle, sir, whose property is coming to him.” 

“ Ay, ay ? and why does he choose such a time of year 
as this ? Why can’t he go, pray, in August or September, 
when town’s thin and business slack ?” 

“ Falkstone Feast, it seems, sir, takes place at Martin- 
mas, when it is the custom of the country for the families of 
the place to meet together.” 

“ And do you belong to one of the families of the place ?” 

“ Frank Welland is desirous to make me known to his. 
There will be a great deal of merry-making going forward ; 
and, as you have always thought well of Frank, sir, and ex- 
pressed yourself willing that we should be friends together, 
I consider the opportunity a good one to afford myself a 
little recreation.” 

“ Recreation in a farm house in a rainy November ! 
Pretty recreation ! Pretty moment for the country ! There 
hasn’t been a leaf on the tree in St. Paul’s Churchyard this 
fortnight past.” 

“ Certainly, sir, if you cannot spare me,” rejoined William, 
“ I shall not think of pressing my request.” 

“ If you want amusement, why can’t you go to the play- 
houses ?” remonstrated old Harding. “ I’m sure you seem- 
ed gay enough, t’other night, at the club.” 

“ A little change of air and scene,” William began. 

“ Oh, go ! go if you like. 1 don’t want to hinder you,” 
replied old Harding, testily. “ If you find pleasure in the 
company of that sulky young fellow, Frank Welland, I wish 
you joy of your taste. Your cousin Sophy will be home 
from school in six weeks, and then ” 

“ I shall be back, sir, in less than, two,” interrupted Wil- 
liam ; u and if my JBing is likely to be the least inconveni^ 
ence’to the business, I shall be most happy to give up the 
excursion altogether.” 


166 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


“ Inconvenience ! Why, what have Clark and Wilkinson 
to do but attend to their duties ? Wilkinson is the steadiest 
young man that ever entered my shop, and no one better 
understands his business than Clark. No! make the best 
of your way to Falkstone Feast, and let me hear no more 
about the matter.” 

William was now almost inclined to withdraw his petition. 
But it was too late. The old gentleman insisted that he 
should go ; and the young one could only hope that his 
kinsman was finessing as well as himself ; and that, instead 
of according his confidence to the smug, smooth, demure Ga- 
briel Wilkinson, he would become hourly more sensible of 
the loss of a relative to whom alone, of all the house, he ac- 
corded unlimited confidence. 

To Falkstone, therefore, the two young men repaired by 
the night coach ; and, though William Harding had not 
been sufficiently misled by the rhapsodies of his usually 
silent and reserved companion, to expect great things of the 
village and farm which were home to Frank, he was careful 
not to betray to those who welcomed him so warmly, his 
amazement that persons in their right minds could prefer 
living in a place whose ways were so miry, and whose 
homesteads so mean. William at heart a pure Cockney, 
languished after the wide pavements and radiant gas of 
Cheapside. He could not comprehend the hearty shake of 
the hand bestowed by Frank Welland upon Neighbor Gray. 
Neighbor Gray appeared to him only a foolish old char- 
woman : the only thing he saw to admire in her was a 
calimanco petticoat of a peculiar quality — “ a stuff that had 
oeen out of make in the trade for the last twenty years.” 

The nature of the country-bred youth soon broke out in 
Frank, and the day following his arrival, he was out with 
his uncle in a survey of the farm ; arid the day following 
(as the hounds met within four miles’ distance) mounted a 
favourite mare bred on the farm, and was not at home again 
till some hours after dark. But William Harding displayed 
no similiar propensities. William loitered with the lasses 
about the village, entering into the sports and gossipings of 
the place ; and, in eight-and-forty hours, had completely es- 
tablished his popularity among those who, in spite of the 
commendations of Farmer Welland and Neighbor Gray, 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


167 


persisted in considering Master Frank as a very miked young 
gentleman, who did little honour to his London breeding. 
They saw too much of sportsmen to care for his manliness, 
and too little of fine gentlemen to regard the courteous de- 
portment of William Harding as anything short of tkje piak* 
of the London mode. 

The young meu were to spend ten days at Falkstone ; 
the first week of which, was chiefly engrossed by the hos- 
pitalities of the Feast. The last three days were passed by 
Frank in visiting and bidding adieu to his various kinsfolk; 
and it was on the day preceding their departure — which 
they had agreed to devote to a walk across the country, to 
dine at the house of a young farmer, with whom, during the 
recent festivities, they had formed a friendship, — that Frank, 
so taciturn in company, began suddenly to wax garrulous in 
descanting on his future prospects. 

“ If my uncle would but make up his mind to bring mat- 
ters between us to a settlement !” cried he. “ Like most 
old people, he likes to keep a hard grip on his property to 
I the last minute, and a close tongue concerning his intentions 
of disposing it. As far as he has ever told me, the 800Z. 
laid out to establish me in business, is all I am to expect 
from him ; but, as he has no relations but myself, I am 
1 pretty sure of coming into what he has to leave.” 

“ Of course, to be sure,” replied William, whose thoughts 
i were elsewhere ; “ and, as you are getting on so well in life, 
you can afford to wait.” 

“ No, I can’t,” was the blunt reply of Frank. “ I want 
to get away from London altogether.” 

cc Away from London ? Why, I thought that, when old 
Grimstone died, you were to come into the whole business ?” 

“ And so I am. But I care nothing for the business.” 

“ Nothing for the business ? Didn’t you tell me that, last 
year, it returned you seventeen per cent., and that you have 
a year’s orders before you 1” 

“ Eighteen ! But what is that to the purpose? I hate 
London — I have always hated it ; and now the prospect of 
returning there makes me detest it more than ever. 

“ You surprise me !” cried his companion. “ Indepen- 
dent as you are ” 

“ I am not independent, since my uncle insists upon my 


168 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


sticking to business,” replied Frank. “ My uncle gave me 
a good country education, brought me up with country 
tastes and habits ; and when everybody at Falkstone thought 
he was going to settle me at home, to assist and succeed him 
in the farm as my father would have done had he survived, 
he bundles me' off to London, and plants me behind a 
counter — a thing that, by nature, I was never made for.” 

“ He wanted you, perhaps, to see something of life ?” 

“ He wanted to get me out of the way. The old gentle- 
men likes to be master at home; and, when I rebelled against 
being driven off to town like a beast to Smithfield market, 
told me outright he would not have a grown-up nephew 
shoving him out of his place before his time ; and that he 
did not mean to take off his shoes till he went to bed.” 

“Well, if you make sure of having the shoes when he 
goes to bed, you ought to be satisfied.” 

“ And so I would. God knows I don’t want to deprive 
the old gentleman of an inch of his property. But, if 1 am 
to earn my inheritance by slaving away the best of my 
days in the smother and noise of the city, I’d rather be a 
day-laborer at Falkstone.” 

William Harding looked with a smile of pity upon the 
innate rustic, so little deserving his prospects of preferment. 

“ My uncle may live these ten, these fifteen years 1” cried 
Frank, striking his stick harder on the ground, as they 
trudged on. “ It is not for me, to whom he has been so 
kind a friend, to wish his days shortened.” 

“The farmer is ten years older than my cousin Harding,” 
observed William, musingly ; “ yet, you see, 1 do not grum- 
ble — I am satisfied to wait. 5 ’ 

“ To be sure you are — because you will marry your 
cousin Sophy, — live according to your own likings in Lon- 
don, and devote yourself to improve a business which you 
know will one day be your own. While I am not only con- 
strained to a way of life I abhor, but when the time arrives 
that is to make me my own master, Mary Gray will be an 
old woman, or, perhaps, availing herself of my absence, be 
married to another.” 

It had need of all William Harding’s self-command to 
prevent his stopping short and fixing his eyes on the face of 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


169 


his companion, as he exclaimed — “Mary Gray ! Are you en- 
gaged then to marry Mary Gray ?” 

“ We are not even what is called sweethearts/'* replied 
Frank, with perfect composure. “When I was last at 
Falkstone, the girl was but fifteen ; and, though I then 
made a vow to myself that none but she whom 1 had danced 
on my knee as a child, should be my wife, I knew that it 
would anger my uncle even to hint at such a thing. And so, 
things remain as they were.” 

“ But you know yourself to be as sure of Mary’s affections 
as yod are of old Welland’s property ?” 

“ I used to think so. Neighbor Gray loves me as a son 
of her own ; and it was but natural Mary should grow up 
with a liking for her old playmate. But, out of sight, out of 
mind ! Since I have been here this time, I fancy I notice a 
change in Mary’s manner ; and, though I can’t make out 
that any one has been courting her during my absence (such 
a mild, delicate creature as it is, the young fellows here- 
abouts seem afraid she would not make enough of a house- 
wife for, them, for, in truth, Mary is not strong enough to do 
much in a family,) still, I can see that I am not so great a 
favorite as I used to be.” 

“ Perhaps her mother may have doubts about your being 
in earnest, and have warned the girl to be on her guard,” 
said William, in a confused manner. 

“In earnest 1 — on her guard ?” reiterated Frank. “You 
don’t know Neighbor Gray ! There’s not a thought of evil 
or guile in that woman’s mind. She’s above any such ma- 
jnceuvring notions. If Mary has grown cold, it is because 
ishe likes me less than she used ; or, perhaps, she hates the 
the thoughts of a town life as much as I do, and is afraid I 
might be wanting to marry her at once, and carry her away 
[from her mother.” 

“ I am told she is likely to leave Falkstone without any 
|such interference,” observed William, carelessly. “Mrs. 
Gray, it seems, is in bad circumstances.” 

“ Neighbor Gray,” amended Frank. 

“ And Mary is going out to service in a month or two.” 

“ Mary going out to service ? Who told you so?” 

“ It is the common talk of the farm ; so that I should 


170 


NEIGHBOR GRAY. 


think a settlement in life as the wife of an honest man in a 
good business ” 

“ Yes ; but you know that I cannot make her the wife 
of an honest man in a good business. Were I to talk of 
marrying Neighbor Gray’s daughter, my uncle would cut 
me off with a shilling ; and what would then become of my 
mother and sister, whom, you know, it is my duty and hap- 
piness to support ?” 

“Well,* well, I meant no offence,” replied William. 

“ For my part, think you have no call to think of marrying 
for the next ten years, when you will be free to follow your 
own fancies ; and, after all, Mary Gray will be but seven- 
and-twenty.” 

Nevertheless, before the actual departure of the young 
men from Falkstone, Frank did think it necessary to come 
to some explanation with the object of his affections. Wil- 
liam Harding met them entering together the farm, from the 
garden, where Mary had been sent to gather herbs by her 
mother, and where young Welland had made himself so 
thoroughly understood, that Mary was forced to speak as plain- 
ly as himself. So far from accepting his offer of such pecuniary j 
assistance to her mother as would prevent the necessity of 
her going out to service till the death of old Welland should 
enable him to make the daughter his wife and the mother | 
his inmate, Mary assured him that Neighbor Gray would 
disdain being indebted for support to any but her own or her 
daughter’s industry ; and that, were he already in possession 
of Welland’s farm, she should decline to become its mistress 
and his wife. 

Frank was not nettled by this declaration — he was deeply 
hurt; too much hurt, indeed, to confess to his friend and 
confidant how much he had hazarded, and how much in 
vain. Once, when, in (he course of their journey back to 
town, William attempted to advert to Neighbor Gray and 
Mary, Frank replied so abruptly that he had given up all 
thoughts of her, that there was no possibility of pushing the 
question. 

Meanwhile, William had laid his plans so cunningly as to 
insure the warmest reception from Harding of Cheapside. 
He knew that, were the old gentleman apprized of the day 
of his arrival, he would get up an air of indifference, to pre- 


AND HER DAUGHTER 


171 


vent the young truant from fancying himself of too much 
consequence. But, by arriving unexpectedly one evening 
after tea, when the old gentleman was wearying after his 
usual antagonist for his game at cribbage, he was sure of 
being received with open arms as “ long-looked-for come at 
last.” In another month, cousin Sophy was at home; and, 
in the diversions of the holidays — twelfth-cake parties, balls, 
and pantomimes — enjoyed with the father and cousin, Falk- 
stone appeared to be forgotten. 

Time passed on. It was noticed by Clark and Wilkin- 
son, and other small observers, to whom the proceedings of 
William Harding afforded a matter of interest, that, from the 
period of their return from Falkstone feast, the two young 
men were less in each other’s company than before. But 
who could wonder? Frank Welland, always so dry and 
uncompanionable, was now more morose than ever ; and 
William soon acquired a painful accession to his duties. 
During his absence in the north, the old mercer had beguiled 
the tedium of his solitude by consulting a new apothecary, 
and attempting a sudden change of diet and prescriptions ; 
and was now as ill in earnest as before in fancy, though 
his daughter was recalled permanently home to become his 
nurse. The management of the business, too, fell entirely 
to his hands. Saving one week in the course of the ensuing 
summer, when he proceeded in person to Nottingham, in the 
j interest of the concern, William was not a moment away 
from Cheapside. He was evidently doing his utmost to 
please the old man ; and, in spite of the peevishness of age 
and sickness, fully succeeded 

At length Martinmas came round again ; and one eve- 
ning, as William Harding was passing Welland’s shop, on 
his way to his weekly club, he stepped in, for the 6rst 
time for many months, to chat ; inquiring in a careless 
manner, whether, this Feast, Frank intended to visit Falk- 
stone ? 

“ I am not even invited,” was the young man’s reply. 
“ My uncle is not quite so fond of my company as old Har- 
ding of yours ; and once in two years, is as often as he seems 
inclined to see me at the farm.” 

Still harping on the subject, William proceeded to a few 
casual inquiries concerning the Nottinghamshire friends and 


172 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


acquaintances lie had made the preceding year. But 
Frank could tell him nothing. His uncle was a bad corres- 
pondent ; and, when he did write, dwelt more on the condi- 
tion of his stock and the prospects of his fields, than upon 
village news. William even hazarded an express inquiry 
concerning Neighbor Gray and her daughter; but Frank 
immediately stopped short. Colouring deeply he seemed to 
feel it impossible to allude to Mary ; and broke off into 
questions concerning the prevailing rumor of an approach- 
ing marriage between William and Miss Harding. 

“ Yes/’ replied William assuming a more cheerful tone — 
“ everything is settled. As soon as Sophy enters her eight- 
eenth year, she is to be my wife. Her father gives me up 
the business, and all the rest is to follow at his death. A 
fine prospect for one who, like myself, began the world with 
nothing, and am not yet five-and-twenty.” 

Three months afterwards, as Frank Wellafid was listening 
to the gossiping account given over his counter by some 
neighbor of the grand doings about to take place at Wil- 
liam’s wedding, which was fixed for the following week, a 
letter was put into his hand, which bore the Falkstone post- 
mark, requiring his immediate attendance at the farm, as 
his uncle had undergone a paralytic attack, and was speech- 
less. 

Frank was at Falkstone on the following day ; and, af- 
ter visiting the bedside of the now insensible old man, and 
learning from the medical attendant that, though his uncle 
might linger for a few weeks or even months, his recovery 
was impossible, young Welland noticed several strange faces 
about the place. Almost mechanically he uttered an in- 
quiry after Neighbor Gray. 

“ Ah, poor Neighbor Gray !” — replied the venerable 
dairy -woman to whom his question was addressed — “ the old 
soul has never held up her head since. 

“ Since what ?” 

“ Since poor Mary’s business. Neighbor Gray keeps her 
bed, Master Frank ; and, as the poor soul has no one tc, 
look to her, or doctor her, like the farmer here, it’s likely, 
sickness ’ll get the uppermost.” 

“ But Mary — Mary ” 

“ And, maybe, ’tis the best thing as can happen to the 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


173 


poor ’oman,” persisted the contemporary whose sympathies 
were enlisted rather with the mother than the daughter ; 
“ for what has she too look to in life, now as it’s all up with 
her daughter?” 

“ What is up with her daughter ?— what has happened to 
Mary ?”— interrupted Frank, with unusual impetuosity. 

“ Such a mother surely as she has been !” continued 
i the dame, raising her hands and eyes ; “ and to be so re- 

• warded at last !” 

And Frank, finding it impossible to worm out of the 
■ old woman the information he desired, dashed off out of the 

• house ; and, meeting in the farmyard his uncle’s favorite 
p herdsman, an intelligent man, for years an inmate of the 
{ house, he resumed his inquiries touching Neighbor Gray and 
h her daughter. 

“Ah, poor Mary ! I’m feared, Master Frank, ’twill turn 
l out a bad business,” replied the man. 

e “What will turn out a bad business? For God’s sake 

• speak ! I have never heard a word of the matter !” — cried 
a young Welland: 

i3t« “ Why, Lord bless your heart alive, Master Frank, 
is sphere have you been a-living ? Nothen’ else was talked 
c'liof in Falkstone town for a month or more; and, God 
cnows, poor Neighbor Gray has never looked one in the 
af* 'ace sin’ — ” 


G |q| q Q — 

“ Sin’ Mary was put in jail for child-murder.” 

« Child-murder ? — Mary Gray in jail ?”— faltered Frank. 

“ Well may you be surprised. But you see, Master 
i'rank, older heads than yourn foretold as no good ould 
ome out when Mary persisted in setting off to the place 
he had heard of in Notten’am, in sp te of mother and 
riends, and all as was bound to advise the poor l* 83 - " 

he had to say in answer was, as there was fourteen po 
-year to be arned-and that’s wages as is not to be had 
very day and was not to be over-looked by the da Ul? h- 

of poor Neighbor Gray. So away went the girl, su , 


174 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


got in the way of arnest. Well, sir, all this was well and 
good ; and Neighbor Gray, though sure enough she was 
always pining after the girl's company, used to comfort her- ! 
self by the notion, that, maybe in a year’s time, Mary 
would get leave to come home to Falkstone for a day or * 
two ; or, if not, she would make the best of her way to 
Notten’am for a peep at the lass. But, Lord bless you 
Master Frank ! afore the year was quite at an end, comes 
news to Justice Snokes, up at Barleywood, to make inqui- 
ries at Falkstone concerning one Mary Gray as had been 
tooked up at Notten’am on suspicion of making away with 
a alligitinet child.” 

“Gracious God 1” cried Frank. “And the unfortunate 
creature has been convicted then ?” 

“ The ’sizes don’t come on till next week ; but, from 
all as one hears, the poor lass has little chance. And, 
surely, to think of Neighbor Gray’s daughter coming to 
the gallows ! It seems to bring shame upon the whole 
village.” 

The gallows! Frank Welland clenched his hands till 
the blood started, and gnashed his teeth for very anguish, 
as, without hesitation, he took his way to the cottage of 
Neighbor Gray — not for the satisfaction of his misgivings — 
not even with an intention of alluding to the name of Mary 
— but to afford his mite of consolation to the unhappy old 
woman who had assisted to watch over his infancy, and 
whose grey hairs were about to be brought down in sorrow 
to the grave. It was June — genial, breezy, hope-breathing 
June ; — yet the door of the cottage, usually so hospitably 
ajar, was closed against the sunshine ; and, when Frank , 
Welland entered, instead of the busy sounds of industry, 
formerly saluting him — Neighbor Gray croning some old 
ditty over her house-work, or as an accompaniment to the 
whir of the spinning-wheel — all was still as death. The j 
old woman sat in her lonely arm-chair, with her back ' 
turned to the window, and her eyes fixed upon the embers, 
as if listening to a far off sound. 

Reserved as Frank Welland was on most occasions, for 1 
once he waxed eloquent ; to express to the distressed mother 
his hopes that she would command his utmost assistance, c 
either pecuniary or personal, to administer to the service of 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


175 


one who had proved so little worthy of the love they bore 
her. But Neighbor Gray listened and listened, and seemed 
to lack comprehension or courage to reply; for she uttered 
not a single syllable. At length, on some expression fall- 
ing from Frank, that implied his apprehension of the worst, 
and Ins conviction of the guilt of the accused, she ex- 
claimed — 


* Why, sure, it is not you, Master Frank, who have known 
the girl from her cradle, who could believe her capable of 
taking away an innocent life ?” 

“ hard, indeed, for me to think ill of Mary,” replied 
I young Welland, with quivering lips. u Mary was the dear- 
1 est thing I had on earth. Mary might have been my wife 
before now, had she chosen to accept an honest man for her 
! husband ; but 1 am fain to fear, Neighbor Gray, from all 
Fve just now been hearing, that things will go hard 
with her. ,> 

“ Fear no such thing, Master Frank,” replied the old 
woman with firmness. “ If I sit grieving here, it is for the 
trouble into which my poor child has fallen, not for any 
danger that threatens her. To be sure, the law is a fright- 

I ful thing ; but, masterful as it is, it can’t go to prove a thing 
as never happened upon the ’varsal ’arth. I have word from 
Mary, Master Frank, that, as sure as God is above us, she is 
! innocent of the crime laid to her charge; and Mary’s plain 
word is more to me than all the oaths ever sworn in a court 
of justice. From a babe to a woman, never did those lips of 
hers utter an untruth !” 

An involuntary sob burst from Neighbor Gray as she of- 
fered this tender testimony to the virtues of her girl. Even 
Frank felt comforted by the assurance; and he had now 
courage to listen to the poor mother’s details concerning the 
[ suspicions under which Mary had fallen, the investigations 
instituted by her master and mistress, and the evidence upon 
which she had been committed to take her trial for child- 
murder. The birth of an infant she admitted ; yet not only 
refused to give up the name of the father, but persisted in 
swearing that it had been removed from Nottingham imme- 
diately after its birth, and was still in existence. Further 
than this, not a syllable could be extracted from the pris- 
oner. Frank Welland’s suspicions were now excited. 


176 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


Connecting the visit of William Harding to Nottingham, the 
preceding summer, with the partiality he had betrayed for 
Mary on his visit to Falkstone, and her own subsequent 
coldness towards himself, Frank saw sufficient justification 
for addressing a letter to his young friend- — not absolutely of 
accusation, but acquainting Harding with the actual situation 
of Mary Gray, and imploring him, if aware of any circum- 
stance tending to establish her innocence, to bring it forward 
without delay. He mentioned that nothing but his uncle’s 
dying state prevented his starting for Nottingham, to act a 
brother’s part by the poor prisoner; and ended by a forcible 
appeal to the feelings of his friend. 

“ Think what would be Heaven’s judgment on those who 
are really chargeable with the suspicions under which she 
labours,” wrote young Welland, “ if Mary Gray, at nineteen 
years of age, should be condemned to death for a crime of 
which she is as innocent as yourself. To Death ! — Think 
of that , William ! and do not fail to return an instant answer 
to my letter.” 

William Harding’s reply was inconclusive and unsatisfac- 
tory ; but agitation of mind was so perceptible in every line 
it contained, as fully to confirm the suspicions of Frank. He 
began by imploring Welland, if he valued his reputation and 
comfort in life, to refrain from addressing him again on the 
subject. “ Next Tuesday is my wedding-day,” said he ; 
and should such a letter as I have just received from you 
fall into Sophy’s hands, Heaven knows what might be the 
consequences. I am as willing as you can be to stand a 
friend to Neighbor Gray’s daughter ; and having been ap- 
prised of her unfortunate situation, have already given her 
the best law advice to be had for money. I have ascertain- 
ed that she has nothing to fear. There is no evidence 
against her. She must be acquitted ; and the only thing to 
be done for her future comfort, is to take a passage for her 
at once to America, as it will be impossible for her to live in 
peace at home, after what has happened. In the meantime, 
all L have to beg of you, my dear Welland, is to forbear all 
discussion of the subject till we meet again, when I shall ex- 
plain matters to your satisfaction. Not a syllable more by 
letter !” J 

Frank Welland did refrain from further correspondence 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


177 


with the friend he had detected as a villain ; but not from 
the most zealous interference in behalf of Mary. At the 
risk of eternally offending his uncle, who had occasional 
glimpses of memory and consciousness, he resolved to set off 
lor Nottingham ; but, at the very moment of departure, old 
Welland experienced a second stroke of palsy, which, with- 
in twenty-four hours, terminated his existence ; and scarcely 
had the old man breathed his last, when Frank, disdaining 
to inquire for a will or after the disposal of the property, left 
the dead to bury their dead, mounted his uncle’s favourite 
mare, and rode off, like a madman, to Nottingham. The 
assizes had commenced the preceding day ; the trial of 
Mary Gray was actually before the grand jury, when Frank 
Welland, half dead with emotion and exhaustion, entered 
the court. For the first time after nearly two years’ ab- 
sence, he beheld his gentle, sensitive Mary standing, wild 
and ghastly, at the bar, holding up her hand to plead for 
life, against the advocate of the laws of her country ! — 

But the opinion of the able counsellors procured by 
William Harding, was fully borne out. A deficiency of 
evidence secured the acquittal of the prisoner ; and she was 
received from the bar, insensible, into the friendly arms of 
Francis Welland. He , indeed, entertained no further doubt 
of her innocence ; but Mary did not leave the court with an 
unblemished reputation. She had not attempted to deny 
the birth of the child, but proved that she had confided the 
fact to others, so as to receive professional attendance; and, 
though her life was thus preserved from the retribution of 
the law, her character was gone forever. 

“ And what is to become of you, Mary ?” demanded 
Frank, as he watched by her. side, when at length she woke 
from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen, after 
being conducted by her devoted friend to an obscure inn at 
Nottingham, where he obtained her shelter for the night. 
“ Shall you have courage to show your face at Falkstone? 
My uncle is lying dead at the farm. I must hasten back to 
do my duty by him. If you wish it, I will carry you home. 
It seems to me you have no alternative but to go back to 

your mother.” . 

“ I must wait his orders,” replied the humbled girl, in $ 

low voice. 

VOL. ii. — 16* 


178 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


“ Whose orders must you wait ?” 

“ My husband’s !” 

‘‘Your husband’s ? you do not mean to pretend that you 
are married ?” 

“ I am married,” replied Mary, mildly. “ And if I had 
not known yesterday that nothing could be proved against 
an innocent person, I might have set aside the trial at once, 
for I was indicted under my maiden name.” 

“ And why, for God’s sake, did you not put in the plea ?” 

“Because the discovery of our marriage would have been 
the ruin of my husband. Such has been throughout the 
motive of so much mystery. My little boy was taken away 
the moment he was born, and every means has been resort- 
ed to, to keep the secret. What have I not borne for it ! — 
Disgrace, imprisonment, danger ! and, above all, the wretch- 
edness of knowing the sorrow I had brought down on my 
mother — on my poor, dear, kind, loving mother ! Oh, 
Master Frank ! I will not wait here any longer. Take me 
back to Falkstone ! take me back to my mother ! take me 
home /” 

“ In defiance of your husband, Mary ?” sternly demanded 
Welland, who, in this softening of the poor girl’s heart, felt 
he had an opportunity for the clearing up of his doubts. 

“ Why should I think more of him than he thinks of me ?” 
cried Mary. “Why was he not, like yourself, in court, to 
give me courage and countenance ! He promised to come 
down for the trial. He promised to be in readiness to re- 
ceive me when all was over.” 

“To come down ! from London perhaps?” demanded 
Frank, fixing his eye upon the countenance of the agitated 
girl. “Mary! it cannot, surely, be William Harding who 
has deceived you ?” — » 

Mary turned paler than before, but uttered not a word. 

“ What is the alleged motive of this husband of yours,” 
persisted Frank, “ for so obstinate a concealment of his mar- 
riage ?” 

“That he would be instantly cast off by a relative from 
whom he has great expectations. What right have I to 
ruin his prospects in life ? The moment he comes into his 
business, all is to be made known, — our boy acknowledged, 
and our marriage declared.” 


AND HER DAUGHTER 


179 


“ Mary !” cried Frank Welland, “ it is no longer possible 
for me to doubt that the villain who has all but brought you 
to a death of shame, is no other than William Harding. Do 
not deny it — do not attempt to deceive me or yourself. I 
tell you that, at this very moment, he is married to another. 
The business and fortune he was expecting, were the wed- 
ding portion of his cousin.” 

Mary smiled incredulously. “ I am lawfully married — 
believe me, I am lawfully married !” washer sole reply. 

“ Not if your supposed husband be William Harding,” 
persisted Frank, with solemn earnestness ; and, taking from 
his pocket-book the letter announcing William’s approach- 
ing marriage with Sophia, he placed this irrefragable proof 
in the hands of his companion. But Mary was no scholar. 
She begged him to read to her what he supposed to concern 
her of the epistle ; and the horror-struck countenance with 
which she listened to every successive line, gradually un- 
folding the miseries of her fate and the worthlessness of him 
in whom she trusted, afforded eloquent confirmation of Wel- 
land’s previous suspicions. She sat for some moments si- 
lent, after he had concluded the letter ; then replied by 
producing for his inspection what she believed to be the legal 
certificate of a legal marriage, privately solemnized at 
Nottingham the preceding summer. 

“ He has deceived you, Mary,” cried Frank, returning 
her the papers. “ This is mere imposition — this is good for 
nothing. The marriage was a trick, an imposture.” — 

It was useless to add more. Mary, who had supported 
her courage so well at the bar of criminal justice, was now 
senseless at his feet. 

A week elapsed — and Frank Welland had laid in the 
p-rave the venerable head of the relative by whose will he 
came into possession of property to the value of twelve 
! thousand pounds; and a spectral figure sat by the fireside of 
Neighbor Gray, whose door was now closed more scrupu- 
lously than before against the consolatory visits of her vil- 
lage friends. Overwhelmed by the discovery of the in- 
famous deception practised upon her, poor Mary refused to 
be comforted. One moment, she burst into invectives against 
jl her seducer, threatening to set off for London and bring his 
■ villanies to light ; the next, she seemed to shrink from the 


180 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


contemplation of the act of cruel justice she was about to 
inflict upon the worthless being so steadfastly beloved ; and 
finding from young Welland that he was about to visit 
London to wind up his commercial affairs and dispose of his 
business, preparatory to retiring to Falkstone for the remain- 
der of his days, she placed her cause in his hands, charging 
him to claim back from William Harding the pledge of now 
withered affection ; and engage, on her part, to institute no 
proceedings against him, in consideration of his consenting 
to give her back the child. 

Her commission was more than fulfilled by the young 
farmer. Armed with the sternness of righteous indignation, 
he proceeded to the house of feasting, over whose front the 
name of the happy bridegroom was now triumphantly in- 
scribed in letters of gold ; and having refused the hand ex- 
tended towards him in friendly greeting by young Harding, 
repeated word by word, the adjurations of the unfortunate 
daughter of Neighbor Gray. 

“ Hush, hush ! speak lower, I entreat you,” said the de- 
linquent, turning pale as death at the mere mention of 
Mary’s name. “ I can explain everything; I can ” 

“ You can explain nothing l” replied Welland, with firm- 
ness. “You have acted like a scoundrel, and your guilt 
will be only increased by denial. I know not how far your 
proceedings may have brought you within reach of the 
criminal justice of the country ; but this l know, that, in - 
spite of all your prosperity, all your pride, this thriving 
business of yours would fall away to nothing, were I to pro- 
claim what you have done and what you have intended 
to do.” 

“ Welland, my dear Welland !” faltered Harding, going 
anxiously to the door of the room in which they were stand- 
ing, to ascertain that the listening ears of Gabriel Wilkinson 
were not on the watch. “For old friendship’s sake, be 
merciful ! Dictate your own terms — I am willing to do Mary 
Gray all the justice still in my power. I will make a com- 
fortable settlement upon her and her mother.” 

“ Neither her mother nor she would stoop to receive a 
shilling at your hands'” replied Frank, with contempt. 
“ All this poor girl asks of you, is possession of her child.” 

“And that is the sole request beyond my power to grant,” 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


181 


replied Harding. “ The boy died within ten days of re- 
moval from his mother. — I can give you the certificate of his 
burial.” 

u Another i orged certificate?” demanded Welland, with 
a scornful smile. 

“ No, on my honour !” 

“ Your honour /” 

“ On my word as a man and a Christian. Here it is,” 
he continued, having unlocked and taken from his bureau a 
paper, which Welland recognized as in proper form. “ Take 
it down to Mary. Set her mind at rest on that point. 
Make my peace with her, as far as peace is possible ; and, 
whenever she will accept assistance at my hands, you shall 
dictate the settlement to be made upon her.” 

“ 1 shall , but it will never proceed from funds of yours, 
replied Welland, impatiently. “There is but one con- 
cession I require of you — namely, a written engagement to 
attempt, on no future occasion, or on whatever pretext, any 
further communication with the family of Neighbor Gray.” 

“ That is easily granted,” replied Harding, readily taking 
up his pen to comply with the demand, in hopes that his 
compliance would rid him of the company of his dangerous 
visitor. “ Here is my attestation, which you may sign as a 
witness, though I cannot exactly perceive what interest you 
have in such an agreement.” 

It was not to the culprit before him that Welland felt 
; bound to enter into explanations. It was by the humble 
hearthside of Neighbor Gray that the young farmer unfolded 
for the first time, to the weeping Mary, his desire to make 
her his wife ; a match that would not only secure her hap- 
piness for life, but, in a great measure, procure her vindica- 
tion in the eyes of the world, and at the expense of his own 
I character. Those who were aware of Frank Welland sina- 
; bility to declare Mary his wife during the lifetime of his uncle, 
would attribute to him the evil that had befallen . her, 
and the suspicions to which she had been on the point of 

falling a victim. . , 

But, to the grief of Frank, and the amazement of Neigh- 
bor Gray, Mary was inexorable !— She was not going to 
carry shame, she said, into any honest man’s homestead. 
Nor could even the utmost eloquence of Welland convince 


182 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


her of the authenticity of the certificate he had brought from 
London. Mary felt how grievously she had been already 
misled by her want of scholarship ; and, once deceived, 
could not bring herself to believe that the paltry slip of paper 
was anything more than a new feint to impose upon her. 
The mother — the young mother — was yearning in her 
heart. The first cry of her infant had sounded in her ears 
only to be silenced forever; and, though now proved a 
child of shame, she felt that, if only permitted to fold her 
little son to her breast, all would be atoned — all might be 
forgotten : — her withered youth, — her blighted fame, — her 
broken heart. Even the fixed sadness of her mother’s 
venerable countenance would be dispelled, after bestow- 
ing her benediction upon the precious child of her precious 
Mary. 

Again and again — sometimes with entreaties, sometimes 
with chiding — did Welland labor to undeceive her. He 
resigned his own views, he forgot his own passion, while 
striving to restore the composure of the unhappy girl. But 
the more earnestly he protested, the more convinced w 7 as 
Mary that he was bent on persuading her of the death of the 
babe in order that, finding herself alone in the world, she 
might consent to become his wife, and resign all recollection 
of the past. She slept not by night, she rested not by day. 
Had it not been for the friendly aid ofFarmer Welland, Neigh- 
bor Gray must have come to want ; for the old woman was 
no longer able, nor her daughter willing to work. A spirit 
of restlessness, induced by her misfortunes, and almost amount- 
ing to insanity, seemed to have taken possession of poor Mary. 

Unable to address a letter of appeal to her persecutor, 
and faithful to her resolution of confiding the secret so mo- 
mentous to William’s welfare to no other living soul, the 
devoted girl set about learning to write ; and in the course 
of a few months, so far accomplished her object as to be 
able to frame a petition to Harding, embodying the requests 
already conveyed through the bands of Francis Welland. 
But, after all her patience, all her cares, all her labors, her 
letter was in a few days returned to her without a syllable of 
reply. Such was William Harding’s mode of fulfilling the 
written engagement into which he had entered with his friend. 

Two years had now elapsed since his marriage; and 


and her daughter. 


183 


though many men ought have felt the evil to which his mis- 
doings had given rise a drawback upon the happiness, noth- 
ing could exceed the triumphant pride of William Hardin*. 
Sophia had already made him the father of a boy, upon 
whom, at his birth, the grandfather settled a sum of 10. 
OOOf. ; and, to complete his satisfaction, Welland, the onlv 
individual in London cognizant of his guilt, had retired for 
Jne into a remote county. Harding was now a Common- 
Councilman, with a prospect of civic honors, pending which 
accession of importance he gratified his vanity by the re- 
adornment and extension of his premises in Cheapside. 
His shining, French-varnished mahogany counters, the 
large looking-glasses advantageously disposed for the reflec- 
tion of light, the arabesque garlands adorning the pannels of 
the shop, the ormolu sconces, emitting long tongues of 
lucent gas — all were arranged according to the most ap- 
proved form of modern luxury. Rich India shawls, and 
silks of Lyons manufacture, were disposed in folds and 
draperies, imparting to the place the air of a lady’s bourdoir, 
rather than of a shop in Cheapside ; while vases of enam- 
elled Nankin porcelain, birds of Paradise, and pagodas of 
carved ivory or filigree, were interposed among his mer- 
ceries, after the fashion of an India ware-house. Of this 
exhibition of taste and splendor, William Harding was 
vastly proud ; and when the old gentleman drove in once 
or twice a week, from his villa at Camberwell, to dine with 
the young couple and admire the progress of his grandson, 
though he was apt to jeer and banter his successor upon his 
tendency to parade, he was, at heart, pleased to perceive 
that his son-in-law marched with the times, and had spirit 
to adventure further than himself. The business was daily 
rising in importance. Harding and Co. realised more in 
six months than John Harding alone, in twelve ; nor could 
the old gentleman refrain from pointing out occasionally to 
Gabriel Wilkinson, as he passed through the shop, how 
many sources of profit had been neglected in his time, and 
how much of their present prosperity was owing to the 
sharp head and high character of his son-in-law. William 
would come to be church-warden of the parish, — William 
would come to be Alderman, — William might come to be 
Lord Mayor ; — William would at all events, come into 


184 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


possession of the sixty-five thousand pounds amassed by his 
father-in-law. Sophy was the happiest of wives — the boy 
a princely child : — had not old John Harding cause to ap- 
plaud his choice of a son, and William the price he had set 
upon an unblemished reputation ? 

The only drawback on his satisfaction was some degree 
of incompatibility of temper with his flighty wife. Mrs. 
Harding, so far from possessing the gentleness and devoted- 
ness of his once idolized Mary, was a young woman of 
haughty spirit, educated at a third-rate boarding-school, in 
considerable admiration of her own heiress-ship. She knew 
the prosperity of her husband to emante solely from herself, 
and made use of the argument, on all occasions, to enforce 
her claims to consideration and indulgence. She was alike 
jealous of her husband’s attention to his business in prefer- 
ence to herself, and jealous of her husband’s influence over 
her father as superior to her own. She was often fretful, 
always imperious. But William felt that, for the present, 
it was desirable to bear all with submission. It was 
necessary, till the death of old Harding, to maintain, in the 
eyes of his father-in-law, the reputation of the best of hus- 
bands. 

One day as the old gentleman was* enjoying, in his 
daughter’s drawing-room, the basin of smoking soup which 
William always took care to have in readiness for his visits, 
a sort of scuffle was heard at the door — an altercation be- 
tween William and the nurse, who was for pushing into the 
room with the child. “ I don’t care, sir,” reached the ears 
of Mrs. Harding and her father. “ I know that woman will 
end with doing Master John a mischief. She shan’t touch 
the child whilst he’s in my care. 1 choose to go to my 
Missus ” 

“ Come in, nurse — come in!” cried Sophy, advancing 
towards the door ; but the sovereign, silently slipped by 
William into nurse’s hand, had produced a total confusion of 
ideas in the woman’s mind. When interrogated by “ Mis- 
sus,” she knew nothing — could remember nothing; and 
flattered herself she had succeeded in persuading the jealous 
woman that her ears had deceived her. 

But Sophia was too shrewd to be so imposed on. She 
had always secretly resented William’s coldness as a suitor 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


185 


and indifference as a husband ; and now so perseveringly 
addressed her questions to Gabriel Wilkinson, concerning the 
disturbance which had driven the nurse and child from the 
shop into the drawing-room, as at length to elicit that a 
young woman in deep mourning, having considerable re- 
mains of beauty, had more than once pursued the nurse and 
child into the house — claimed the boy as her own — upbraid- 
ed William Harding, in presence of his shopmen and cus- 
tomers, — and only been driven at length from the place by 
threats of sending for peace-officers. 

“ The young woman is evidently out of her mind,” ob- 
served Wilkinson, watching the effect of his communications. 
“ But the tender way in which she appeals to her dear 
William, and the earnestness with which she insists upon 
getting possession of the little boy, are truly alarming ; for, 
1 fear, they have been already the means of raising reports 
in the neighbourhood disadvantageous to Mr. Harding. 
Twice, the vehemence of her outcries has attracted a mob 
round the shop-door ; and I can perceive officious people, as 
they pass, pointing to the house as the scene of a mysterious 
occurrence.” 

“ And have you not been able to discover the girl’s 
name ?” demanded Sophia, her heart fluttering with agitation. 

“No, ma’am. It was no business of mine. But I think 
1 have heard Mr. Harding address her as ‘Mary.’ I fancy 
it is some acquaintance from the country. 

This hint was enough for the petulant Sophia. Much as 
she had before affected to despise the shop, she was now 
constantly visiting William at his counter, with his boy in 
her arms ; nay, would even stand with him at the door, on 
pretence of amusing the child with the carriages passing by. 
Hardino-, meanwhile, was on thorns. Significant smiles 
passed between his envious shopmen, Wilkinson and Clark, 
when thev saw their master, in his uneasiness, bringing 
down to his customers plush for velvet, or china crape for 
jerophane. But at length, Sophia’s manoeuvres succeeded ; 

she obtained an interview with “ Mary. 

For it was indeed Mary Gray-Mary, carecrazed and 
friendless, — who, having paid the last duties to her mother 
„d realized a small sum by the sale of her cottage and 
effects, had repaired to London on pretext of seekmg a s.t- 
VOL. II. 1? 


186 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


uation ; but, in reality, on the frantic errand of persuading 
William Harding to give up her child. Her mind was more 
than ever bewildered by delusions ; and, having readily 
found her way to the residence of the splendid mercer, she 
could not dispossess herself of the idea that the beautiful boy 
she saw laughing and crowing in his nurse’s arms, in a shop 
inscribed with the name of “ William Harding,” could be no 
other than the one of whom she was in search. 

“ Give him to me 1” — cried she, rushing into the shop on 
the memorable afternoon Sophia was lying in wait for her. 
“ He is mine — he is my child ! — William will tell you that 
he was married to me before he ever saw your face ! — But I 
do not ask for William — I do not want William ! — 1 want 
the child — I want our son — our boy !” 

“ Put her quietly out,” said Harding in an under tone to 
Gabriel Wilkinson ; “ the poor creature is evidently mad.” 
But the paleness overspreading his own features, and the 
faltering voice in which he spoke, bore testimony to his 
secret terrors. 

“ Do not hurt her — she seems quite harmless,’’ cried 
Sophia, interfering, as Wilkinson was about to obey the di- 
rections of his master. “ Do you want anything here, 
young woman ?” she continued, addressing Mary Gray. 

“ I want my child 1” replied Mary, more gently, on find- 
ing herself addressed in a tone of gentleness. “ William 
Harding took it from me the moment it was born, promising 
I should have it again when he was able to acknowledge 
our marriage. And now, though you see how dearly he 
loves it, and how finely it is dressed, he keeps it from me on 
pretence that it is dead and buried !” And she attempted, 
with so much vehemence, to snatch the babe from the arms 
of its mother, that Sophia, terrified in her turn, was glad to 
escape into the interior of the house. 

The rest of that day was anything but a day of peace to 
William. All that female exasperation could put forth in 
the way of reproach, was lavished upon him. He was ac- 
cused by Sophy of having redeemed himself from beggary 
by a marriage with herself, to the ruin of some unhappy 
creature sacrificed lo his interests ; and already she had ad- 
dressed a letter to her father, acquainting him with her dis- 
coveries, and imploring him to fetch her away from the city 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


187 


the following day. Overwhelmed by the prospect of a 
breach with his father-in-law, Harding exerted himself to 
the utmost to “ put the best face on the matter,” taxing his 
wife with injustice in giving ear to the incoherences of one 
who was either a maniac or a person suborned to bring false 
accusations against an innocent man. By the time tea was 
nearly over, he had so far recovered his influence over the 
mind of the indignant Sophy as to be permitted to sit beside 
her on the sofa, and obtain a remote prospect of reconciliation. 

But Mary Gray — who, though expelled with rough en- 
treatment that morning from the threshold of her once loved 
William, felt that she had obtained an advantage in being 
permitted to approach the child whom her disordered in- 
tellects represented to her as her own — was still lurking 
near the shop ; and, when the business of the day was en- 
ded, and, by the light of the blazing gas gleaming through 
the transparent plate glass, she discerned Clark, Wilkinson, 
and their confraternity, busily engaged in making entries 
and folding up the rich cachemere and Ternau shawls, she 
made a sudden dart across the shop, towards the door through 
which she had seen Sophia disappear in the morning. In 
another moment, she was in the drawing-room ; confronting, 
with frantic gestures, the husband and wife, and interrupting 
their tete-a-tete with outcries for her child, — her boy. 

“ He is dead, Mary,” cried William Harding, startled out 
of all self-possession by her sudden re-appearance. “ You 
have seen the certificate of his burial. You well know that 
he is dead.” 

“ Then you have murdered him. I accuse you of having 
murdered him !” exclaimed the poor girl, her face livid with 
excitement. i( You tried hard to betray me to the gallows, 
in hopes of getting rid of me. I tell you, William Haiding, 
you tried to make away with me ; and now you have made 
away with your poor, blessed, innocent, smiling babe. 
What have you done with it, madam? where have you put 
it ?” cried she, making a wild rush towards the now shriek- 
ino- Sophia, which was parried by the agitated husband ; 
and, as they were struggling together, the young men below, 
alarmed by the screams of Mrs. Harding, hurried up stairs. 
The window was thrown up, and the police called in. Bre 
they made their appearance, Mary, exhausted by her effoits, 


188 


NEIGHBOR GRAY 


and the disease by which they were excited, had fallen on 
the floor in a fit — her lips covered with foam, and her eyes 
starting from their orbits. 

“ Take her away, take her away !” shrieked Mrs. Hard- 
ing, as the policemen entered ; while her husband remained 
speechless with consternation. 

“ She is mad, I fancy,” observed one of the shopmen, in 
explanation. 

“ More likely drunk,” replied the policemen, to whom 
such incidents were familiar. 

“ Drunk and disorderly,” added Clark, after representing 
to the policemen the strange intrusion of the offender, whom 
he proceeded to give in charge, with a view of putting an 
end to the dilemma of his employer. 

c( I warrant you a few hours in the station-house will 
bring the lady to herself,” replied the man. And the still 
senseless Mary was accordingly borne off, conveyed to the 
station-house, and locked into a damp cell till morning. 
William Harding had no leisure for the consideration of her 
sufferings — Sophia’s hysterics were quite as much, just then, 
as he could manage. 

Two hours afterwards, just as the house was closed for 
the night, a knock was heard, followed by the voice of a 
stranger, insisting on an immediate interview with Mr. 
Harding. It was Welland ; who, having followed the un- 
fortunate daughter of Neighbor Gray to town, had only that 
afternoon traced out her lodgings, and, alarmed by her ab- 
sence, and conjecturing whither the wanderings of the poor 
maniac had been directed, was come to demand tidings of 
the unhappy girl. William would, perhaps, have followed 
up his system of deception by denying all knowledge of her, 
had not the servants of the house already admitted to the 
visitor, that a young woman, out of her mind, had, in truth, 
been there ; and, having bred disturbances in the family, 
was committed to the nearest police station. 

Frank Welland did not waste a moment in appealing to 
the conscience of his former friend. Hastening eagerly to the 
station-house, by dint of a considerable bribe, he obtained 
immediate access to the prisoner. 

“ She be som’ere her’abouts. But the young woman war 
blind drunk, when shut in for the night,” observed the con- 


AND HER DAUGHTER. 


189 


stable, lowering his lantern to the floor of the cell on which 
Mary Gray was lying. “ She war obstropulous when we 
took her into custody ; but she do seem quiet enough' now.” 

And quiet enough she was, when Frank, with streaming 
eyes, bent over her body. Mary was dead ! — Yes, dead, — 
still warm, but quite dead. 

“ There didn’t seem no good in sending for a doctor/’ ob- 
served the policeman, in self-extenuation. “ She war given 
in charge as drunk and disorderly. How was we to know 
as she war in a fit ?” 

“ Given in charge? — by whom ?” faltered Welland. 

u By a respectable householder, Mr. William Harding, of 
Cheapside. There ben’t a gemn’an of higher character in 
the parish.” 

The unfortunate daughter of Neighbor Gray was laid de- 
cently in the grave, by him over whose infancy the good 
woman had watched so kindly. But the prosperity, to the 
acquirement of which William Harding had sacrificed so 
largely, did not long outlast the sad event. The wrongs of 
poor Mary were avenged by the vindictive Sophia ; who, 
till her father’s death, remained his inmate, and, by her rep- 
resentations of the worthlessness of her husband, obtained 
the sole and separate control over the property left behind 
by old Harding. 

No one pitied the delinquent — no one stood his friend. 
His gorgeous shop became deserted ; and the failing busi- 
ness was, at length, made over, for a trifling consideration, 
jto a new firm, Messrs Wilkinson and Clark. The ruined 
man, true to the last to his false principles, instead of at- 
tributing to his misdoings the failure of his worldly prosperity, 
bewailed only his loss of reputation. 

“ I had no chance of getting over such a stroke of ill- 
luck ! ,? — was his constant exclamation. “Knowledge of 
business is a fine thing ; but my case is a plain proof that, 
in trade, the one thing needful is Character!” 
vol. ii. — 17* 






THE JEWESS. 


The vogue recently assigned by literary confederacy to 
the ,c Spas of Germany” and “Brunnens of Nassau” has 
been productive of numberless unforeseen results. Tun- 
bridge Wells and Malvern are drooping; and more than 
one jolly citizen, accustomed aforetime to refresh himself 
with an autumnal trip to Ramsgate or Hastings, has extend- 
ed his travels across the main, and died of sauerkraut and 
the spleen. 

Fooling it among the rest, I arrived at Emmsbaden last 
year, the first week in September, — setting out on a journey 
just as the rains set in. Nothing could be more cheerless 
than the aspect of the little valley. The Lalm ran heavy 
in its channel, and time as heavy as the Lahn. Reasonable 
people had abandoned the place ; and nothing remained but 
a coterie of discontented English, astonished to find that the 
green curtain had fallen, when they expected to be in time 
for the overture. It was perhaps owing to the want of bet- 
ter amusement, that one and all selected me as auditor 
of their several versions of an adventure which, towards the 
close of the season, had produced an unprecedented sensa- 
tion in the place. In the course of the three days I remain- 
ed at Emms, I continued to sum up the various editions of 
the story. But, in order to excite as strong an interest for 
the catastrophe as was expressed by my fair countrywoman 
(who, but for the timely incident, might have perished of 
ennui), it will be necessary to begin (like the Belier, in the 
fairy tale) with the beginning. 

It was on the day succeeding Mr. Clifton’s arrival in 
town, after a dreary winter in Ireland, that he was invited to 
a splendid fete , given by four rich and idle bachelors, at a 
villa on the banks of the Thames. Walter Clifton was a 
guest eminently worthy the entertainment. — Handsome, 
well-born, and accomplished, he had recently “come to his 
estate,” which happened to lie in one of the disturbed dis- 


192 


THE JEWESS. 


tricts of the green island which seems bent upon eternally 
proving its greenness. His mother, a widow-lady of some- 
what serious turn, resided in Dublin, where his youth anc 
college vacations .were chiefly passed ; so that Clifton had 
none of the knowingness, nothing of the jargon, of a Lon- 
don man. There are certain branches of useless knowledge 
and phrases of fashionable slang, with which Eton, Harrow, 
or Westminster, renders the schoolboy as familiar as the 
most dowagerly of dowager dandies. But Walter’s mind 
and conversation were pure from all this. He arrived in 
town a brilliant, animated, happy, sanguine creature ; ready 
to be amused, willing to amuse ; with truth on his lips and 
sunshine in his heart. When his Christ Church friend, Sir 
Robert Walmsley, offered him a ticket for the fete , he 
thought himself particularly lucky ; and, much to the 
amazement of the dandy baronet, who from affectation could 
scarcely allow himself to inhale the common air breathed 
by the rest of mankind, candidly admitted his delight. 

“I’m afraid you will be cursedly bored,” was Sir Rob- 
ert’s apostrophe, on bestowing the ticket. 

“ 1 never was bored in my life,” was Clifton’s frank re- 
ply ; “ and should think it a reflection on myself, not to be 
gratified at Ashbrook Farm.” 

With feelings attuned to enjoyment, therefore, he turned 
his cabriolet into the Fulham road, as the bright midsummer 
morning subsided into a delicious afternoon ; and when, 
from a distance, he caught the sound of the military band 
enlivening the fete , his light heart felt lighter than ever, and 
he quickened his horse’s speed towards the gates. As it 
usually happens where superfluous precautions are taken to 
secure the order of the day, disorder ensued. Such a su- 
perabundance of policeman were stationed in the vicinity of 
the spot to protect the plate and other valuable property 
contributed by the lordly fete-g ivers, that, having nothing 
else to do, they did mischief, — hectored the footmen in at- 
tendance, and set the coachmen squabbling with each other 
and slashing their horses. A London coachman is an ani- 
mal peculiarly insubordinate to constituted athorities. 
There was one white-wigged, red-faced, irascible old gen- 
tleman, proceeding to the Ashbrook fete , who, on being 
reproved for impatience (which was in fact the impatience 
of a pair of spirited blood horses.) whipped out of the line, 


THE JEWESS. 


193 


produced a considerable smashing of panels, and eventually 
arrived at the gate with a policeman at each of his horses’ 
heads ; — his brother whips cheering him on, the rabble 
shouting and swearing, — the policemen looking wondrous 
blue, and the two ladies in the handsome chariot he was 
driving, as pale as ashes. 

The latter circumstance naturally excited the sympathy of 
Walter Clifton. He was out of his cab in a moment ; offer- 
ing his aid to hasten them out of the carriage, new surround- 
ed by a noisy, struggling multitude, among which the gentry 
in office were indiscriminately dealing their blows. To 
escort them through the throng, was the work of a moment ; 
but it was not till they had arrived at an inner entrance, 
where shawls were deposited and tickets given, he had 
leisure to note that the elder of the two ladies was attired 
with unusual costliness, and the younger scarcely less lavishly 
adorned with the gifts of nature. Both were warmely wel- 
comed by the hospitable heroes of the day, with whom 
Clifton was unacquainted ; and though his unknown friends 
turned towards him with eager acknowledgments, he had 
the mortification of being without the means of a . formal in- 
troduction. It was a mortification ; for the dark-haired girl 
who smiled upon him while her chaperon was pouring out 
her thanks, was one of the handsomest creatures that he 
had ever beheld ; with dark oriental eyes, the most grace- 
ful form, the most buoyant demeanor ! — His sense of pro- 
priety scarcely sufficed to remind him that, till he had been 
introduced in form, there would be want of delicacy in pre- 
suming upon an acquaintance thus accidentally formed ; 
and it was with some difficulty he tore himself from the 
contemplation of that fine intelligent countenance, to go in 
search of a master of the ceremonies. 

“My dear Walmsley,” cried he, the moment he caught a 
glimpse of Sir Robert, “ can you tell me who it is that drives 
a very dark chariot with bay horses ?’’ 

“ Everybody drives a dark chariot with bay horses,” 
drawled the dandy, trying to pass on. 

“ With white liveries ?” 

“My dear fellow, I know nobody I never notice liveries.” 

“ But you surely notice beautiful faces ; and ” 

“ I like beautiful faces to notice me. But pray excuse me. 
The duchess is waiting for me to take her in to breakfast.” 


194 


THE JEWESS. 


Equally unsuccessful were divers other applications 
Nobody listened — nobody cared — nobody knew anything 
about anybody. It is probable, however that the objects of 
his inquiry succeeded on their part in ascertaining his name 
and condition ; for as he stood overlooking a quadrille, in 
which one or two of his friends were engaged, the elder 
lady, approaching with her fair companion on her arm, 
addressing him with so much graciousness, that in the flurry 
of spirits excited by the animating scene, and almost before 
he knew what he was about, he engaged the beauty as a 
partner for the following dance. 

- All now went smoothly — more smoothly than his rash- 
ness deserved. They stood together, — danced together, — 
talked together, — smiled together. Clifton readily discovered 
that his companion was a person moving in the best society, 
and commanding its courtesies ; and, with characteristic 
frankness, made her acquainted with his whole history in 
return. Having loitered a few minutes near his fair partner, 
after returning her to the protection of her chaperon, he 
discovered that they were mother and daughter, and that the 
name of the latter was Rachel ; — a homely designation, 
but when people are in the humor to be pleased, nothing 
come amiss. To remain long by her side, however, 
was impossible. The ladies were too popular to be accessi- 
ble to his assiduities. Rachel was beset with partners, 
and Rachel’s mamma by half the fashionable dowagers of 
the day. 

Meanwhile, the fete proceeded with unprecedent bril- 
liancy. It was a delicious day, and the lovely lawns of 
Ashford Farm were worthy of the weather. Every im- 
pression received by Clifton was agreeable, and tended to 
increase his hilarity. Never had he passed so enchanting a 
morning; and by the time that evening brought the/e^e-to a 
close, and amid the crackling and sputtering of fireworks, 
his cousin, Lady Armagh,, presented him in form to the 
ladies of the dark chariot and bay horses, as — “Mrs. De 
Bruyn, Mr. Clifton — Mr. Clifton, Mrs. and Miss De 
Bruyn,” he had ceased to care about the ceremony. Ac- 
cident had brought them together, and inclination kept, 
them together nearly the whole of the day. They were al- 
ready intimate. 

At the opera the following night, nothing was so easy as 


THE JEWESS. 


195 


for Mr. Clifton to visit Mrs. De Bruyn’s box; at the 
Zoological next day, nothing so charming as to walk bv 
Rachel’s side. Finding that they were to be at Almack’s 
and all the best balls of the ensuing week, he took measures 
for meeting them ; and though they were on all occasions 
surrounded by the most fashionable men in town, Miss De 
Bruyn usually managed to make room for his approach. 
She evidently preferred his society. While he worshipped 
her beauty, Rachel evidently delighted in his frank, cordial 
character. 

Amid the tittle-tattle of second-rate society, Walter Clif- 
ton would not have been a week acquainted with the De 
Bruyns, without learning every particular of their birth, 
parentage, and education — the name of Mrs. De B.’s great- 
grand-mother, and the amount of the value of her diamonds. 
But among those with whom they mutually associated, 
everybody is supposed to know everybody ; because all 
are persons concerning whom everything is known. In 
process of time, Mrs. De Bruyn invited Walter to her 
house in Berkely square ; where he was presented to a Mr. 
John De Bruyn, a young man whom he took to be the son 
and brother of his friends. By the whole family, he was 
cordially welcomed. He found them living in opulence. 
His beautiful Rachel displayed every accomplishment of a 
first-rate education ; and he felt himself fortunate in having 
accidentally made his way into a domestic circle, which he 
was beginning to flatter himself might eventually become 
his own. With the exception of certain harsh peculiarities 
of manner on the part of the mother, there was nothing he 
could wish altered in the family. 

A man less ingenuous than Walter Clifton, might in fact 
have been easily captivated by the attractions of such a 
girl as Rachel. There was a nobleness and high-minded- 
ness in her sentiments, peculiarly consonant with the lofty 
beauty of her person. Of all the women he had ever heard 
converse, not one approached her in unstudied eloquence, 
information, in correctness of taste and judgment. He 
could no longer bear to talk with other girls. It was not 
alone the liquid lustre of her dark eyes, — the speaking ex- 
pression of her finely-formed mouth, which thrilled through 
his soul when he gazed upon her intelligent face. It was 
that he believed in her preference ; that she conversed with 


196 


THE JEWESS. 


him far more unreservedly than with any other man of her 
acquaintance ; and he only trembled least he might injure 
his cause by precipitancy, so difficult was it to restrain him- 
self from declaring in form to Mrs. De Bruyn his desire to 
be admitted as a suitor to her daughter. He felt that six 
weeks’ acquaintance could not justify such a pretension ; 
and contented himself with writing to his Irish man of busi- 
ness for a formal statement of the nature and condition of 
his property, that he might be prepared to meet the in- 
quiries likely to arise on his proposals. 

Such was the happy state of Clifton’s feelings while 
daily engaged in escorting the lady of his thoughts to ex- 
hibitions, picnics, water-parties, breakfasts, reviews ; dancing 
with her at every ball, and sitting entranced by her side at 
every opera. No objection was formed to his attentions. 
John De Bruyn, a dull, sullen young man, was in constant 
attendance on his sister, and on excellent terms with her 
admirer ; and though their conversation was usually carried 
on in whispers, the slightest word of which from Rachel’s 
lips reached the inmost recesses of the heart of Clifton, 
neither mother, nor brother, nor any one present, could be 
unobservant of their increasing intimacy. 

One morning, the young lover, calling at an earlier hour 
than usual in Berkeley square, and finding Mrs. De Bruyn 
alone, naturally inquired for her daughter. 

“ Rachel is gone to sit for her picture,” was the reply. 

“ Her picture ! to whom ? Who, who will do her justice?” 
cried Clifton, eagerly. 

“ Drummond, I hope. The sketch promises extremely 
well. John saw it yesterday, and was delighted.” 

“ The picture is intended then for a present to Mr. De 
Bruyn ?” observed Walter. 

No, it is for myself. I shall want it as a remembrance 
when she is gone. Rachel will leave it with me on her 
marriage.” 

Clifton coloured deeply. The allusion appeared too ex- 
plicit to be mistaken ; and he was beginning to inquire of 
himself whether it might not be intended as a spur to his 
tardy explanations, when Mrs. De Bruyn calmly added, 

“ Rachel’s Marriage takes place, you know, in August.” 

“ Her marriage ?” — 

^Mtrust John has given you an invitation in form ?” 


THE JEWESS. 


197 


Walter Clifton trembled from head to foot, as he inquired, 
with assumed composure, what happy man Miss De Brifyn 
was about to honour with her hand. The mother regarded 
him with unfeigned surprise. 

“ It is surely impossible you can be unaware,’’ said she, 
“ that Rachel is about to . marry her cousin John ? The 
terms of the late Mr. De Bruyn’s will (thanks to the offici- 
ousness of the newspapers) were made so very public, that I 
fancied all the world acquainted with my daughter’s en- 
gagement, which has existed from her birth. It was, in 
fact, the only method by which poor Mr. De Bruyn could 
concentrate the affairs of his house. John will henceforward 
assume the sole control of the business. Among families of 
our persuasion, such alliances are common.” 

“ Persuasion 1 business ?” Yes! Walter Clifton began to 
understand it all ! Rachel was doubtless the daughter of 
the great Jewish banker De Bruyn, defunct a few years be- 
fore, the details of whose will had occupied three columns 
per day of the morning papers for nearly a week. He ought 
to have remembered all this — he ought to have inquired — 
he ought to have known, or rather, people ought to have 
warned him ! Yet why, or wherefore ? Was it not tacitly 
understood that all London, from the Regent’s Park to St. 
James’s, was familiar with the fortunes of the great heiress, 
the only daughter of the most eminent of Jewish bankers ? 

Luckily for Walter, the announcement of a visitor at that 
moment afforded him an opportunity of escape from the 
house ; and his horse being in waiting at the door, he gal- 
loped many miles into the country, before the stunning 
effects of the blow he had received in the slightest degree 
subsided. 

His first impulse was to quit London that very night ; 
not for Ireland, — for only the preceding day he had dis- 
patched a letter to his mother explanatory of his happy ex- 
pectations, and he had not courage to expose himself to the 
old lady’s questions and condolences. No ! he would go 
abroad— to Turkey — Egypt— the East ; no matter where, 
so that he might escape all recurrence to the origin of his 
wretchedness ! On Rachel De Bruyn he never wished to 
look again. One of the weaknesses of his moral nature was 
an antipathy to Jews and all relating to them; and even 
VOL. ii. — IB 


198 


THE JEWESS. 


were the prejudice surmounted, this member of the tribe — 
this one — this Jewess — had done him a deliberate injury — 
had triumphed, for her wanton amusement, over his affections. 
No ! he never wished to look on Rachel De Bruyn again ! 

On his return towards London, however, calmer feel- 
ings ensued. Though still determined to fly from England, 
he resolved, ere his departure, to indulge in a last view of 
that which was so eminently lovely, as if for the purpose of 
engraving still more indelibly in his bosom, the image of its 
false idol. He could trust himself to look upon her without 
self-betrayal. He possessed an all potent antidote to the power 
of her charms — to the magic of her voice. She was a Jewess ! 

According to previous engagement, they were to meet 
and dance together that evening, at one of the finest fetes 
of the season. He would go — he would confront her, — he 
would fix his eyes for the last time upon the future Mrs. 
John De Bruyn. 

From the smiling self-possession with which she accosted 
him, Clifton inferred with truth that his emotion of the 
morning had passed unnoticed by her mother. No suspicions 
were excited. They might part as calmly as they had met. 
Rachel should never know the anguish she had inflicted ; — 
never learn that he had quitted her with a breaking heart to 
bid an eternal farewell to the country wherein she abided. 
He began, therefore, to talk with indifference on indifferent 
subjects; and unsuspicious that any peculiar agitation was 
labouring in his breast, the lovely girl readily accepted his 

arm, to make the tour of the illuminated gardens of 

House. At length, they sat down together, still talking 
with levity and smiling with unconcern ; till, after gazing in 
silence a moment or two upon the beautiful contour of her 
half-averted face, Clifton suddenly gave way to an uncon- 
trolled burst of passionate exclamation. “ No ! it cannot 
have proceeded from inadvertence 1” cried he. “ You must 
have been aware of the cruel injury you were inflicting ! — 
you must have seen how blindly I fell into an error, the 
results of which are to cleave to me as a curse forevermore!” 

Believing her companion to be attacked by sudden fren- 
zy, Rachel started up, and proposed returning to her mother. 
But Clifton did not stir, and the tears now slowly rolling 
down his face appealed so forcibly to her sympathy, that, 
without uttering a syllable, she sat down again by his side. 


THE JEWESS. 


199 


u You cannot have been insensible to your influence over 
me,” he resumed, in a broken voice; “and knowing the 
insuperable obstacles between us, why — why encourage my 
attachment for the wanton indulgence of a vanity which has 
withered every prospect of my life — 

“Obstacles? attachment?”^ exclaimed Rachel, in grief 
and surprise, overpowered by the fervour of his address. 
“ Dear Mr. Clifton, with what have you to reproach me ? 
From the moment of your considerate kindness to us at Ash- 
brook, you have been welcomed with warm friendship to 
our house. You must have seen how much we preferred 
your society — how truly flattered we were by your prefer- 
ence of ours.” 

“ Then why not explain at once the impossibility of the 
expectations 1 was forming ?” 

“ Expectations ?” 

“ Of making you my wife — my own — my beloved and 
loving household companion 1” 

Rachel grew pale as she listened to this earnest apostrophe. 

“ You cannot have meditated this,” said she, at length, in 
a tremulous voice. “ The difference of religion ” 

“ I knew it not — I guessed it not !” 

“ Yet our name — our well known connections ” 

“ I saw nothing but your beauty — your excellence. I 
asked nothing — 1 cared for nothing — but to be near you, 
still and ever near you— near you as now, when, gazing for 
the last time upon your face, I feel that my earthly happi- 
ness is crushed forever. Rachel ! you must have seen that 
1 loved you !” — 

“ You did but offer me, in a more marked degree, the at- 
tention I have been in the habit of receiving from others ; 
who, aware of my faith, my family, my betrothment to my 
cousin, show me the attention due to my age, sex, and po- 
sition in society.” 

And has there been nothing then in your own feelings to- 
wards me, to war against your happiness in the state into 
which you are now about to enter? — You have a colder 
heart than I imagined 1” — cried Walter Clifton. 

“ My cousin is no less partial to you than my mother and 
myself. I have always hoped our friendship would contin- 
ue after my marriage,” pleaded Miss De Bruyn, accustom- 


200 


THE JEWESS. 


ed from childhood to regard the tie of wedlock as part of 
the ceremony of social life. 

“ Your cousin !” — exclaimed Clifton. “ Did you imag- 
ine that your husband would remain equally insensible to 
my passionate idolatry ?” 

“ I never thought — I never considered. I have lived 
with John De Bruyn on the happiest terms so long as I can 
remember,” faltered Rachal. “ Why should he begin to 
thwart me, and interfere with my preferences, on the eternal 
union of our destinies ?” 

“Rachel, Rachel! — you will drive me mad !” — cried 
Clifton, perceiving how closely enfolded was her soul in the 
web of early associations and religious influence. “ What 
is the meaning of this strange combination of simplicity and 
intelligence, of feeling and insensibility ? Are you about 
to bestow yourself as a mere endowment — to give up your 
youth, your beauty, to one you regard only as a partner in 
your father’s bank ? Or do you — (tell me truly, I can bear 
it, Rachel, answer me for once honestly) do you — can you 
love this man ?” — 

“Of course Ido! My cousin has never breathed a 
harsh word to me, or been guilty of an unkind action.” 

“ But is that enough for the intimate — the exquisite ten- 
derness of wedded life ? — Is it to his eyes your own can 
turn in unspeakable sympathy with all that is bright, noble, 
and glorious ? — Is it from him you will seek encouragement 
in your aspirations after knowledge — after truth ? Is it to- 
wards him you will be conscious of that intense and fervent 
passion, which finds eternity itself insufficient for its pros- 
pects of happiness ?’’ 

Miss De Bruyn had no reply for language so new, so 
alarming. It was not thus she had been accustomed to con- 
template her union with her impassive cousin. It was a 
family arrangement, immutable as that which made her the 
child of her mother, or the daughter of her tribe ; but it 
was nothing more. 

“ I must not listen to all this,” said she, becoming con- 
scious of the delicacy of her situation, and making a move- 
ment to rise. 

“ You will not have to listen to it long !” — was Clifton’s 
calm rejoinder, resuming some control over his feelings. 
“ l am here but to bid you farewell for ever. After this 


THE JEWESS. 


201 


night, I shall behold your face no more. Be happy, Rach- 
el, since you can content yourself with the monotonous 
calm of an existence unbrightened by tenderness, — unen- 
deared by the ties of spontaneous, fervent, passionate at- 
tachment !” — 


“ But you are a Christian !”■ — interrupted Miss De Bruyn. 
tl Even had not my destiny been sealed by an eternal com- 
pact, I never could have become your wife.” 

It was now Walter’s turn to remain silent ; and Rachel 
mildly pursued her advantage. 

“ If? as you say,” continued she, in a faltering tone, “I 
am to blame in not having discovered your attachment, and 
apprised you of the obstacles to our union, why did not 
you , who were satisfied of my affection, acquaint me with 
the objections that were to prevent my being honored with 
your hand ?’* 

:i On my life — my soul — I knew not of their existence !” 
cried Walter. “What was there in your position in the 
world, or your establishment at home, . to induce suspicion 
that you were otherwise than the society in which I found 
you ? But even had I known it,” cried he, struggling with 
contending emotions, “ nay, deeply as I am imbued by 
birth and education with prejudices against your faith and 
its professors, I would have waived all objections — forgot- 
ten all scruples — for the rich compensation of calling you 
mine for ever !” 

Rachel was silent. A deep impression had been made 
upon her feelings. 

“By my father’s will,” said she at last in a low voice, 
“ I forfeit my whole fortune by non-fulfilment of my con- 
tract with my cousin.” 

“ Are you then so dearly attached to the things of this 
world ?” — exclaimed Clifton, with bitter contempt. 

“ As little as any human being,” replied Rachel, un- 
imoved by his sarcasm. “ But how do I know that others 
that you — might be equally indifferent?” 

“ Great God ! are your so little acquainted with human 
nature as to suppose that the man who would sacrifice the 
deepest prejudices of his soul for your sake, would not also 
resign the paltry temptation of a little miserable dross ?” — 

Again Rachel was silent. But this ~ ^ 

upon her feelings was trebly profound. 


time, the impression 


202 


THE JEWESS. 


“ You would make me your wife then, — poor penniless 
— rejected by my family — abhorred by my people ” 

Clifton’s reply burst forth at once from the impetuosity of 
a generous heart. 

“ You are excited by the passion of the moment,” said 
Rachel, a bright expression of new-born love and happiness 
beaming from her eyes. “ Think calmly of it, Clifton ! — I 
give you till to-morrow for consideration.” 

“You mean that you desire to deliberate on such a sacrifice!” 

“No — my mind is decided. Such love as this can be 
but once the portion of any living woman. If to-morrow 
your reply be affirmative, I arn your wife !” 

On the morrow, the reply was affirmative ; and on the 
following day Rachel De Bruyn summoned together her 
family and apprised them of her resolution not only to break 
faith with her cousin, but to become the wife of a Christian ! 
The consternation, the indignation, the persecution provoked 
by such a declaration may be readily conjectured. The 
elders of the family denounced her ; her spiritual counsel- 
lors were called in. In reply to the interrogations of the 
high priest, she admitted not only her sacrilegious intentions, 
but that she had made no conditions with Clifton for the re- 
tention of her religious observances. She had perfect faith 
in his generosity. 

“ If you intended to inspire me with the horror you 
now manifest towards the professors of the Christian 
faith,’’ was her consistent reply to the furious invectives 
of her mother, “ you should not have exposed me to the 
attraction of their society. I have lived chiefly among 
Christians. It is there 1 have been happiest — it is there I 
am determined to be happy !” 

It was vain, meanwhile, to urge upon her as an argu- 
ment against her resolution, the misery she was inflicting 
upon her cousin ; for though Mrs. De Bruyn was almost 
frantic at the prospect of her daughter’s loss of fortune, John 
was evidently consoled by its forfeiture to himself for the 
loss of his cousin. Impossible to show greater resignation. 
Two months, however, were to elapse previous to Rachel’s 
attainment of her majority and acquirement of the power of 
election ; and Mrs. De Bruyn flattered herself that the in- 
terval, judiciously improved, might wean her daughter from 
a preference which she called madness, her nephew folly, 


THE JEWESS. 


203 


and the synagogue sin. Without giving time for a renewal 
of intercourse with Clifton, she embarked that very evening 
for Rotterdam, accompanied by a venerable Rabbi, who for 
years had presided over the family conscience of the De 
Bruyns ; and on being rejoined by her establishment, pro- 
ceeded at once on a tour of the Rhine. 

Closely as Rachel was watched by her mother, she was 
too much beloved by those around her not to obtain the 
means of communicating to Clifton the disastrous results of 
the step she had taken ; and by the time the party reached 
Nassau, Walter was on his way to her assistance. 

“ You can scarcely believe,” said the lively Frenchwo- 
man, by whom the anecdote was first related to me, “ the 
sensation produced at Emms by the arrival of Mademoselle 
De Bruyn. It was neither her beauty, her grace, nor the 
reputation of her enormous fortune, which captivated our 
attention ; though never, I must confess, did I behold so 
perfectly lovely a creature ! It was rather the sensibility of 
her countenance — the restlessness ofher anxious looks — the 
irritating manner in which, though grown to womanhood, 
she was domineered overby her mother. Nothing could be 
more gentle than her demeanor — more reasonable than her 
conversation, so that we discerned no pretext for so much 
coercion. The mamma and Mr. Steinkerpf examined every 
step she took, and every word that fell from her lips; and 
as all the world supposed that the heiress was on the point 
of marriage with her father’s nephew, where was the use of 
maintaining her in such childish subordination ? 

“ At length, one evening, late in the month of August, 
as Prince Soltikoff, who was always mineralizing or botaniz- 
along the cliffs, was returning in the dusk by the copses of 
of the Nassau road, he perceived an English lady and gen- 
tleman walking side by side in earnest conversation. The 
young man, who was tall and strikingly handsome, was a 
stranger to him— the lady was Miss De Bruyn. Though 
the Prince coughed repeatedly to apprize them of his ap- 
proach, they appeared indifferent to his presence. Rachel 
was conversing in a low tone, broken by sobs — her com- 
panion addressing her with impassioned eloquence. All that 
Soltikoff’s knowledge of the language permitted him to over- 
hear was, when within sight of the kindling lights of the 
Baths, Miss De Bruyn gave her hand to the stranger, and 


204 


THE JEWESS. 


uttered the words, “ To-morrow, at midnight.” They pro- I 
ceeded onwards in different directions. It is probable, how- | 
ever, that their rendezvous had not escaped detection, for 
the prince noticed a tall figure stealing along the cliffs.” 

“ The prince at least,” said I, “ had the gallantry to pre- 
serve the young lady’s secret ?” 

“ He had no opportunity for indiscretion. The following 
morning, we were all roused at day-break, with intelligence 
that Miss De Bruyn had disappeared.” 

“In company with the young Englishman ?” 

“By no means. No sooner was a search instituted by 
the mother, than Mr. Clifton came forward in frantic dismay, 
acknowledged their meeting of the preceeding evening, and 
their appointment for the night ensuing, preparatory to an 
elopement. Like Soltikoff, he had seen Rachel approach 
the village, and seen her no more. It was clearly proved 
that she never re-entered the hotel.” “ And her mother 

“ Mrs. De Bruyn was distracted — offered enormous re- 
wards for intelligence, — caused the neighborhood to be 
searched, — the river examined ; and, after ten days of fruit- 
less investigation, with all the aid the local tribunals of the 
Grand Duchy could render, quitted the spot in despair.” 

“ Either Walter Clifton was more persevering, or a con- 
confederate in her disappearance, ’’said I, after some cogitation. 

“ Neither the one nor the other. There lies the grand 
mystery of the case. Mrs. De Bruyn’s despair was scarcely 
more evident than that of the unfortunate young man. Clifton 
is now in confinement at Frankfort, under thecareofthe 
British resident, till a proper person arrives from England to 
convey him home to his family. It was indispensable to 
place him underrestraint. He made two attempts upon his life. 
He could not be left at large. All Emms was in commotion.” 

“ And has nothing further transpired concerning the vic- 
tim ? Is it still supposed that she was assassinated ?” 

“No one has the slightest grounds for conjecture. Madame 
De Bruyn, we are told, has put her family into mourning.” 

“Surely that was premature ? Had poor Rachel been 
unfairly dealt with, some trace of the horrible event must have 
appeared. I have it strongly on my mind that she is still living.” 

“ Perhaps so,” rejoined the lady, coolly tapping her snuff- 
box. “ But in that case — what has become of her ?” 




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